Whipstitch
by KaasKnot
Summary: It dawned fair and clear, the day they sewed Loki's lips shut.
1. Chapter 1

It dawned fair and clear, the day they sewed Loki's lips shut. Curiosity and ill-will made it into a spectacle: a prince of Odin, a traitor and genocidal megalomaniac, humbled before Hliðskjálf. It was the event not to be missed.

So it was the throne room was full to bursting as the Þing met to declare the prince's fate. The crowd of onlookers overflowed the aisles, pouring out between the columns into the plaza beyond—a veritable sea of greedy eyes eager for a show. The prince came quietly enough, by all reports, and it was true: there was no mewling or cowering. He strode to meet his father with his head held high and no sign of fear upon his face.

Had he been better-liked this might have endeared him to his people. Had he the boisterous, effulgent disposition of his brother—but Loki had been distant before his crimes and subsequent disappearance, and now he was as untouchable as Ragnarök, and just as sinister. The look of the wild man hung about him, in the untamed length of his hair, in the wear showed upon his armor, in the fey gleam in his eye.

The people stared at him, then looked to Thor, Asgard's Golden Son, and it was as looking from night to day.

He was brought before the dais, and the Allfather declared in solemn tones his younger son's fate. "Loki Odinson, who is our second-born and no less loved for it, you have betrayed the expectations placed on you as our regent. In your short-sightedness you conspired with our ancient enemies the Jötunns and led them into the very heart of Asgard. You betrayed our trust, and worse, you betrayed that of your allies, fomenting war between our peoples. You have committed regicide, patricide—" there was a ripple of confusion in the crowd at this, for Odin was plainly alive and hale, "—and have attempted genocide and suicide. In your fall you conspired with the dregs of the universe to subjugate all the realms of Yggdrasil, starting with Midgard. We will not relay the crimes you committed on Midgardian soil, save to say they are numerous.

"Our son, we are displeased and disappointed. You are called Silvertongue, for your gift with words is well known; as punishment for your acts, we therefore decree your lips shall be sewn shut for a period of no less than three months, in hopes that you will no longer spread lies and deceit. All artifacts of power in your possession will be confiscated; your magic will be bound until such time as we deem you fit to bear it once more. You will be confined to your chambers unless escorted by armed guard. If you endure this punishment with the dignity befitting our line we will consider your honor restored; until then, you are bound." He struck the butt of Gungnir three times against the flags, the sound echoing through the hall like the Norns themselves had knocked for entry. The men of the guard stepped up to obey.

They stripped Loki of his armor. The helmet first, then the vambraces, pauldron and breastplates. His surcoat followed, and Loki was left standing in his tunic before the censure of his nation. What bulk his regalia had afforded him was whittled away, and all that remained was a pale shadow, slender and sharp as a blade.

The guards stepped forward again, and this time they offered Loki a flask. It was the Draught of Strength, brewed from Idunn's apples, and it would tide the prince over the long months of fasting. Loki drank deeply, and returned the flask. His cheeks flushed with vigor.

Then the guards fell back, and the executioner took their place. He was called Brokkr, and he was a small man, kind of temperament and face for all that he dispensed with Odin's will. He set aside a table with the instruments of his duty spread upon it. They gleamed in the golden light of Glaðsheimr. His hands were gentle as he bid Loki kneel and bend back over his knee.

Loki made no noise as the awl pierced his flesh. He neither shied from the pain nor wept; even when the holes were drawn tight with thread he was silent. He stared at the open ceiling to the sky beyond, face in a blank mask, and the only sign he gave of discomfort was the clench of his fists in his his trousers, his grip so tight the knuckles went white.

Soon Brokkr's work was done, and he eased the Son of Odin upright. He stood and gathered his instruments, and he withdrew from the floor.

Loki knelt before his father's throne. His eyes were glassy and his expression stony. Trickles of blood glistened like Fire Giant warpaint on his skin, sketching the lines of a skull's teeth around his ruined mouth. He swallowed heavily, and his eyes flickered up to his family. Odin had aged in the execution, his face creased deeply in his sorrow, and his mother had averted her eyes. Thor cried openly, tears slipping down uncharacteristically pale cheeks to hide in his beard. Loki made to sneer, but the stitches held and he ducked his head to hide his flash of pain.

Odin spoke. "Loki Odinson, who stands condemned of dishonoring his family and betraying our trust, we bind your magic." He raised his hand, palm out, to his son. "You shall not practice seiðr-craft until we deem you worthy of its responsibility, and can be trusted with its use." He clenched his hand into a fist. Loki lurched as though struck, and his eyes grew wide in shock. Later, it would be whispered in taverns over stout Asgardian ale that, of the Traitor-Prince's punishment, perhaps this part was the most cruel.

The Allfather struck the flags once more. "This Diar-Þing is concluded." He turned and strode out, the saturated maroon of his cape stealing sunlight as it billowed in his wake. The murmur of conversation rose with his leave-taking, and it echoed off the ceiling until it was a muted roar. There had been enough grist today to feed the gossip mill for weeks; already speculation flew.

In the press of staring eyes and exiting bodies, a guard helped Loki to his feet. The prince stumbled, but shook the guard's hand from his arm. It was he who led the way to his chambers, shoulders set and eyes dark, and those onlookers in his path shivered at what they saw.


	2. Chapter 2

The doors closed with a quiet thud, and Loki was alone in his quarters. He looked about; they were unchanged from last he had set foot in them.

He wandered through the entrance hall to the sitting room, sidestepping the haphazard stacks of books and the odd little clockwork figures he had built in his youth. He ran a finger along the edge of his desk. Scraps of vellum and airy sheets of the finest paper lay strewn across the polished wood, and a faint black splotch in the corner recalled a mishap with an ink bottle. He peered through the doors into his bedchamber. The bedclothes were neatly arranged.

The entire suite held an air of expectancy.

Loki stood in the threshold, worrying at his palm to keep from touching his mouth. He felt disconnected from the person who had once inhabited these rooms. They didn't feel like his, anymore, as though he were a stranger instead of their rightful occupant.

Much had changed, in the years since he had fallen, not the least of which was Loki himself.

He gave into the urge to sit, sliding into the chair before his desk. His head swam, and despite the Draught slipping through his veins he felt hollow, and sick. He swallowed against the salty tang of iron that coated his tongue. This was part of the punishment, part of the cruelty of it; he would feel hollower yet, before the vartari was cut.

He pulled a slip of paper toward him, his familiar handwriting scrawled across the page in some half-remembered excitement. He read his notes and snorted, flipping the page aside. Child's play, now.

And yet... He raised a hand toward the lamp in the corner, extended his fingers, willed it to glow. Nothing happened. The lamp stayed unlit. Loki drew on his earliest training, the simple cantrips and tricks of the mind to aid in visualization before summoning one's magic became embedded in the psyche, and reached outward again. There was no answering leap within him; instead there was a constricted roil, a sort of reflexive twist, and Loki hunched around the clench in his core.

He lowered his arm, unable to look at the lamp. He stared down at his hands instead, and let his thoughts chase and tear at one another like hungry snakes.

He had chosen this, he must remember that. Given his options, he had shamefully taken the one he knew, could predict, rather than face the unknown. Midgard was weak, but he had wounded her deeply; he couldn't have counted on the humans for mercy. As for his erstwhile allies... they were led, _he_ had been led, by one who disregarded mercy as a horse disregards a fly. Asgard was cruel—but he was just. Thanos was not. Loki picked at a scratch in the lacquer, worrying it with the edge of his fingernail.

He had chosen Asgard—but he was not ready to forgive. Too well he remembered a thousand slights. Too well he recalled the bitter taste of truth. Some things, which now seemed of an ancient, past age, were offset by vast injuries that stung like young wounds, exposed and suppurant despite the passage of time. Loki ran his tongue along the inside of his lips, wincing as thread tugged against tender flesh. He counted off the stitches; nine. If he had been able, he would have smiled at the irony.

The wounds throbbed, and his breath hitched. They stung as though his lips had been shredded, not sewn, and he raised a hand to touch. His fingertips brushed the thread.

Behind him, his door slammed open to dent the plaster behind. Loki jumped, snatching his hand away from his mouth.

"Brother." Thor filled the doorway, not yet changed out of his ceremonial garb. His cape spilled red from his shoulders, and Loki thought of Jötunn eyes, and of his own blood, garish on Brokkr's fingers.

"Loki..." Thor stepped inside, and beyond him Loki saw one of the guards in the hall. The man looked conflicted; no doubt torn between his respect for Thor and his desire to listen in. Loki caught his gaze, eyes narrowing, and swept his fingers pointedly. The guard swallowed and complied, pulling the door closed.

Thor stared at Loki, and Loki glowered back. Words had never been the Hammerer's strong suit, and now they seemed to escape him altogether. Loki sat, not bothering to stand for his Crown-Prince and liege. He kept his face schooled. Let Thor make his move.

"I am sorry, brother," he said, and Loki saw there was genuine contrition in his eyes. "I would not have wished this for you, no matter your crimes." Loki didn't respond. Thor felt things greatly, but too simply; it was no challenge to cause his brother to emote. The depth of that emotion, however... Loki questioned it. Oh, how he questioned it. He let the silence stretch.

"Can you not forgive me? I beg you, give me some sign of your thoughts."

The naked hope on his face was nauseating. Loki felt his expression tighten, pulling at his stitches. He surged from his chair and stomped toward Thor, gathering to himself every ounce of scorn and outrage he could muster, and thrust his face up into his brother's. He hadn't yet washed off the blood; the coppery stink of it was thick in his nose. Thor's cornflower gaze skittered away over Loki's shoulder.

Loki pulled back with a snort. He cast a scathing glance up his brother's form, at his polished armor and unmarred lips, and stepped around him, making a show of avoiding touching any part of him. He strode through the short entryway and opened the door. He stood aside, holding it open. Thor, following his progress, gaped. "Brother, what is this?"

Loki raised an eyebrow, waiting. Thor stared at him helplessly, then bowed his head and stepped out. He spun in the hallway, opening his mouth, but Loki, mindful of the guards and not eager to hear any more of Thor's _words_, slammed the door home. He would have locked it, too, but what non-magical locks there were had been stripped away.

He faced his room, his prison, and with a painful, swallowed cry he swept a stack of books off the entry table. They tumbled to the floor amidst the silken snap of abused paper. Loki stood before the chaos he had wrought, his hands in fists, and tears pricked his eyes.

OOO

"What news of your brother, Thor? How does he fare?" Fandral was perched in the late afternoon sunlight, bent over a torn practice doublet, when Thor burst into the armory.

"He is not well," Thor replied. "He has had his mouth sewn shut." He stripped off his cape and tossed it over an empty armor frame, then brushed aside his sleeves until such time as he would need them again. Mjölnir he let slide through his fingers to settle on a shelf, and as for himself, that he threw down on the bench beside his friend.

Fandral rode out the tumult, grimacing at the needle in his hand. He set the doublet aside. "To be perfectly fair, he did deserve it. One might have said it was tactical genius, turning the Bifröst on Jötunheimr—except that he brought the Jötunns here, in the first place. A pity, that."

Thor sighed, beginning to regret searching out the most light-hearted of his friends. Hogun seemed more and more the better fit for his mood. "That does not merit such punishment as this."

"Not enough? Alright. Let's see, he tried to kill you for your throne." Fandral peered up at the sky. "Oh, and he lied to you about the Allfather's Sleep."

Thor leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

"Then there are the rumors of the atrocities he committed on Midgard. Is it true he enslaved free men, stripped them of their wills, to do his dirty work?"

Thor pushed himself from the bench, out onto the practice ground. "Yes! He did! For the sake of the Ancients do not recite me the list of his misdeeds, I have heard it enough!" He kicked at the hard-packed dirt and scrubbed a hand through his hair.

Fandral reigned back his surprise. "I am sorry, Thor. I didn't think."

"Fight a bout with me," Thor said, not a demand yet not quite a plea.

Fandral rolled his eyes. "I'm in no mood to be trounced today," he said. "Besides, I have chores set to me by the armsmaster himself. Seems to think I am a no-account layabout."

Thor waved a hand. "You can play seamstress later, Fandral. Please, spar with me. I would forget my troubles for a time."

His friend gave him a long look. "Only if you don't use Mjölnir. That would make for no bout at all."

"You choose the weapons."

Fandral scratched behind an ear, as though considering, and Thor felt relief give way in his chest. He was not used to such heavy thoughts as those with which his brother filled him; a bout would burn away the dross, and Fandral was not so weak a warrior as his foppish appearance implied.

"Sabers it is," Fandral said, and unfolded his legs from the bench.

He made a fair showing of himself, too. He won two matches out of three fair and square.


	3. Chapter 3

Odin was on his private balcony when Heimdall came to him. It was rare for the Gatekeeper to leave his post, for he, perhaps of all Odin's people, felt most keenly the weight of his duty. Odin felt his curiosity balance against a weight of foreboding.

"What brings you to see me at such a late hour, All-Seeing Heimdall?"

Heimdall bowed, pressing his fist over his heart. His great sword was strapped across his back, the hilt spare as a promise over his shoulder. "Allfather. I come regarding your son."

Odin huffed a humorless laugh. "I take it not my elder son."

"No, Allfather."

"What is it of Loki that burdens you."

The Gatekeeper stood tall against the void behind him, as though it were his place and always would be—standing between those he protected and those who would harm them. "Loki plots. His heart festers; I can see it, clear as vartari in flesh. He searches his books for any crumb of knowledge on the weapons vault. There is one artifact that draws him most, more even than the tesseract. I hear it whispering in the dark corners of his soul."

Of course. "The Gauntlet."

Heimdall bowed. "The same. Allfather, I do not need to tell you the danger if he were to obtain it."

"No, old friend, indeed there is not. I was there, too, in the last war; I fought, the same as you." Odin rested his hands on the balustrade, looking out over the City. The floating spires of the communications tower danced in the distance.

"He must not."

Odin sighed. "Do not think I belittle your warning, Heimdall. I no longer know the man my son has become. He is twisted, warped from the child I raised, and I fear of my role in his transformation. I would not trust him with the relics any more than I would trust a hungry fox in a chicken coop—but I follow a command that supersedes rationality."

Heimdall raised his helmed head, his gaze sharp. "Frigga has received a vision."

"That she has."

None respected Frigga's Sight more than Heimdall Horn-Bearer. "May I ask what she Saw?"

"You know she does not share what she sees. That is her greatest wisdom, though it is sometimes difficult to bear. She told me only to hope, and to trust my son."

"Trust Loki."

"Yes." Perhaps it was the burden of kingship resting unusually heavy upon Odin's shoulders that night, but the stars seemed brighter, closer. Cosmic gases spun in diaphanous clouds, parting to reveal distant solar clusters before swirling together to veil once more their secrets. Odin gazed heavenward, and found himself wishing...

"I must learn to trust my son, again. I must trust my wife Saw true, and you, Heimdall, must trust that even if she did not I _will _do whatever must be done to protect this realm."

Heimdall bowed. "Allfather."

The Watcher of the Worlds stepped out, and the Lord of the Æsir remained, staring at the sky.

OOO

"You have been cleaning around the sutures with a salt solution every night?"

Loki nodded, avoiding the healer's gaze. He pursed his lips before he could stop himself, and the irritated flesh protested. He ran his tongue against the stitches.

"Well, there aren't any signs of sepsis, and the sutures are healing cleanly. You're lucky." Brokkr sat back. "If there was an infection chances are the scarring would be severe. I can't use a healing stone on sutured tissue."

Glorious news. Loki wouldn't be severely scarred, merely lightly scarred.

The silence stretched, and Loki felt the mood shift. He glanced toward his executioner-cum-personal physician. Brokkr was watching him, a sad light in his eye. "I've said it before, but I am sorry, Loki. I've told the Allfather punishments like this don't help, but tradition..."

Loki snorted. He sat forward in his chair, perched as though to leave, his head tilted in question.

Brokkr sighed. "Yes, you can go. Keep applying the ointment I gave you, and I expect to see you in here again, tomorrow."

Loki gave no sign he had heard, instead rising from his chair and slamming open the doors to the ward proper. He marched past the rows of beds to the exit, ignoring the stares of the healers and patients who watched his progress. His current guard, busy charming a novice, scrambled to catch up. Together they left the healing wing.

It was near the end of breakfasting hour, and the halls were slowly filling. Servants scurried to and fro, dodging nobles who, partaking in their post-prandial strolls, stopped at odd intervals to exchange pleasantries. All of them, high and low, took a moment to gawk at Loki as he passed. Double-takes and whispers followed him like a wake followed a boat.

Scowling, he took a shortcut through the Hall of Noble Dead. A vast, echoing chamber at the crux of the palace's four wings, it held the sigils of all those of the First Tier that had gone before to the halls of the Ancients. It was empty, for few came here outside of the Holiest Days, when Odin offered blót to his ancestors. Shadows clung to the corners like memories condensed. Loki had spent many hours here with his brother as a child, their tutor drilling the history of their line into their heads. They had memorized the exits long before they could recite their great-uncle's defeat of the Ljósálfar.

Loki paid no attention to the relics of his adopted house, caring only for the door tucked behind the statue of Borr. Ducking beneath his grandfather's outstretched arm, he eased it open and slipped through. His shadow managed to get a hand in before the door closed on him, though he had trouble negotiating the small opening in his armor. Loki suppressed his smile, not bothering to slow his pace.

They found themselves in a narrow corridor, used most often by the servants but deserted at this hour. It led past the library, and that was the path Loki followed, wending through the maze until the hall spat them out into the Rotunda.

The Palace Library was, like so many features of Glaðsheimr, superlative. It took up the entire ground floor on the east wing, a good three stories above, and two more below. The hub of it all was called simply the Rotunda, a colonnaded masterpiece of High Asgardian architecture. Various side halls and reading rooms divided off from it, and twin staircases curved around to the second floor balcony. Loki strode across the knotwork floor, sure of his course.

The second prince had always had a respectable collection of books. Some he had pilfered from the library but most he specially commissioned from the finest printers in Asgard. They covered the breadth of worldly knowledge, from history to art to humor, from sagas recorded from the skalds themselves to cheap pulp. By far the widest portion of his horde focused on magic. Loki was a sorcerer, after all, and always sought to perfect his craft.

Yet he had found that his private collection could no longer aid him, for Loki's search required he plunge deep into the arcane and obscure.

The Palace Library had an answer for his quandary. Down the north transept there was an unassuming door, unlabeled and looking very much like a supply closet. None of the tracer spells used to help guests locate their books had loci within, nor carried any record of its contents. Only those with knowledge of the door's existence knew what was beyond: research on divisive magical theory, studies performed on dangerous artifacts, spellbooks of dubious moral standing. It was a vast complex. Loki himself had only found it by accident when he realized there was a discrepancy in the library's layout.

Loki squinted at his guard. This one was young, and looked particularly dim—not the sort to pay mind to books, regardless of their content. One couldn't be too careful, however, researching controlled materials, and Loki kept a careful eye on him. He pushed open the door and into the musty air beyond.

He pulled his journal from his belt pouch and consulted his notes.

Preliminary investigations into the device manufactured by Thanos, the Mad Titan, during the War of the Gems, BJW 9,922. Construction and magical defenses of Glaðsheimr. First priority: magical restraint.

Loki stepped up to the antiquated catalogue along the near wall and began shuffling through the cards for the information he sought.

OOO

It was late afternoon, and Loki was ready to tear his hair out. No small amount of that was due to the changing of his guard, replacing his young and disinterested warden with an older, cannier veteran who was more than ready to tattle to the Allfather if his charge began searching through dangerous books.

The balance of his frustration was due to the library tracing spells. They were voice activated.

He hissed and slammed the book shut. He was in the criminal justice and Asgardian law section, browsing the shelves and hoping to run across any book that might carry information on spells that bound a person's innate magic. They didn't seem to exist, at least not in this section of the stacks. Loki shoved the book back on the shelf.

"Evil plots not cooperating, today?" his guard quipped. Loki glared at him turn for turn. No, in fact, they weren't.

He was getting nowhere with this. Maybe with a guard he felt less like throttling he could get some of his more innocuous research done, but as things stood he was facing long hours of aimless wandering with nothing to show for it. He growled and pushed away from the shelf, stalking down the aisle to the corridor beyond. Tomorrow would be a different guard. Tomorrow, maybe, he could uncover some scrap of anything useful.

He was just passing the horticulture and gardening sections when a body surged out from the stacks and into him, knocking him to the floor in a clatter of falling books. Loki blinked, disoriented. He looked up at his attacker.

It was a woman, small, compact, with hair so curly and voluminous it strained against the haphazard bun she had crammed it into. Her eyes were wide. "Oh—Oh, I am so sorry, I didn't see you, I was just—here, let me help you—" She seized Loki's hand, oblivious to his scowl, and hauled him to his feet. Then she was down on her knees, gathering together her fallen books, chattering all the while.

"So excited, you see, finally found the grimoire I've been trying to track down—I'm on leave from my work at the collegium, thought I'd take time to indulge—completely didn't see you—if you would be so kind as to take these—" She shoved a stack of books in his arms and went back for more. Loki was tempted to dump them back on the floor, but his respect for books in general was too great to abuse them more than they already had been. He glanced to his guard, who was leaning against a bookshelf and watching the scene with intense amusement. He looked back to the woman.

She was _still_ talking. "_Traditional Ljósálfar Herb Lore_, _Desert Perennials of the American Southwest_—I'm missing one. Oh, here it is, behind you—" she reached around Loki to seize a fallen book. "—_Life Cycle of the Muspellian Fire Flower_!" She grinned up at him. "Incredible flowers, really, they—" she noticed Loki's dour expression. "Oh. I'm babbling. Um, this way." Cheeks pink, she led the way to a nearby carrel and piled her books on top. She waited for him follow.

Loki stared at her, incredulous. He would have thought she didn't know who he was, but her clothing bore the cut and traditional tailoring of Third Tier nobility, and every house from at least Sixth Tier up had been present at his execution. For lack of any better ideas he dropped the books on the table next to hers.

"Thank you, my lord," she said formally, curtseying. "And again, I apologize for running into you." With little more ceremony than that she settled down to her books, opening the first with an air of expectant glee.

Loki backed away, annoyed and more than a little confused, and had almost turned around when she looked up from her book and smiled at him. It was simple and full of joy, and it was lovely—but that was not what caught Loki's eye.

There was a scar across her lip, silvery and faint with age, but still clear. It dragged at the lip, pulled her smile crooked, and Loki stared at it. He spun and walked away, shaking his head.

He wasn't sure why her cleft lip had bothered him. Just the same, he couldn't get it out of his head for the rest of the day.


	4. Chapter 4

_"You think you can serve me? All you know is jealousy and hurt feelings. You seek petty vengeance; I seek a higher union. How can you serve me?"_

_"I... I would kill th-them."_

_"Not yet. You are too weak, hampered by sentiment."_

_"No! I hate them! I _will_ kill them!"_

_"Hate is passion. Passion is the ultimate expression of emotion. I would have you seek the absence of passion, for at Death's side there is no emotion."_

He tossed under the covers, caught in a net of memory and dream.

_It was cold, so cold. How long had he been out here? Long enough for his heat to shiver out into the Void. Long enough for his fingers to start turning blue, for the lines of his genetic inheritance to raise against his goose-pimpled flesh._

_"This is Death. Is she not glorious? Is she not terrible to behold?"_

_No. Death was ugly. Death was finding no satisfaction. Death was failing to measure up. Death was to be avoided. He stared into the dying flares of the supernova, watched as they sank away into a yawning crevasse until there was nothing left to be seen but Stygian black against tenebrous night._

_It was glorious. It was terrible. His magic strained against the gravitic riptide and he clung to the fragile life-line. He had fallen once and survived; by the Ancients and everything he feared he didn't want to fall again._

It was a dream. It was a dream. Only a dream, and yet it was real, it was there, it was—

_He was falling. His magic had failed him, torn away and cast aside, and instead of observing the death of a star beside the warming fervor of the Mad Titan he was falling, sucked into a black hole while Odin looked on._

_He scrabbled for the thread, the life-line that had saved him before, but there was no answering leap from within, only a sickening roil. He tried to scream for help, beg his father to save him, but his lips were sewn shut._

_Odin watched as he fell into the abyss._

Loki wrenched awake. He was in his bed, the sheets wound about him in sweat-soaked tangles. He wasn't falling. He stared up at the ceiling and panted with relief so strong it was nauseating.

He dressed in the dark, gathering his scattered clothes and putting himself to order. Armoring himself against his dreams. Clinging to reality, forcing illusion to fade. His fingers trembled, and it took him three tries at pushing a button through its hole before he gave it up and let his collar gap open.

The guards were sagging against the wall, idly chatting, when he opened his door. They froze mid-word, eyes wide and mouths agape. Loki said nothing to either, walking between them as though they were mere statues adorning his doorsill.

He picked a direction at random; he didn't care where he went, so long as it led away. Behind him rose a rattling clomp as the guard who had chosen the short straw caught up to him, falling in step like a shadow. Loki pushed him from his thoughts even as he pushed away the shadows that bubbled up from within.

His plans. The Gauntlet, his _petty vengeance_. His preliminary research had been fruitful, even curtailed as it had been; Thanos had attacked the universe before, and only through the combined might of the all the realms was he turned aside. His weapon, the Gauntlet, had been taken into Asgardian custody, and now resided in the weapons vault beneath Odin's throne.

Therein lay the problem.

The weapons vault was a formidable obstacle even without the presence of the Destroyer, laced with enough sensing spells, alarms and booby traps to furnish the nastiest prison—or treasury, for that was what it was—in the realms.

Loki had researched the spells before, in preparation for Thor's coronation. They were simple enough, provided one knew they were there. That was not the problem.

The problem was Loki had no magic.

Odin, in his vast, far-reaching wisdom had taken from Loki his greatest asset, aside from his intellect. He could no more break the wards of the weapons vault than he could will a lamp to light.

Loki walked, oblivious to the footsteps of his guard echoing his own, and he pondered his quandary.

He was interrupted by a clot of drunken dandies, spilling from the gash of light made by an open door. It was the end of the week, and they were no doubt setting course for the taverns and mead-houses and, more ravenously, the brothels. Loki slipped into the shadows, the guard following, and watched them pass. He thought he saw Thor's friend, Volstagg, amidst the crowd, his carousing and laughing as raucous as the others' as they sought to whet their appetites.

He resumed his course when the door closed, drowning the hall in darkness. The revelers passed, their jubilance faded and the halls sighed once more with the quiet notes of nightly noises.

Loki returned his thoughts to his dilemma. He already knew it was hopeless to try and regain his own magic; the spell the Allfather had used was common enough, and only reversible by the caster's own desire. Loki would find no answers there.

If he were to layer another spell on top of it, however, one that would grant him temporary magic, that was all he truly needed. The Gauntlet was above the limitations of an individual; once it was in Loki's grasp, the matter of his own magic would be a small one, indeed.

But how to obtain that boost of power?

This time it was a page who interrupted him, rounding a corner and running full-tilt into Loki's stomach. Loki seized the boy by his arms and hauled him into the air, glaring at him. _Watch where you're going_, he wanted to say. He couldn't, but the boy seemed to comprehend his meaning just the same, for he went white as bone and stuttered an apology. Loki let go, dropping him to his feet, and watched as he ran off. The boy cast a terrified glance over his shoulder, saw that Loki was still watching, and skittered around the nearest corner.

"Was that really necessary?" his guard asked, and Loki threw him a rude gesture. The man huffed, but didn't bother to reply.

They carried on.

He wouldn't be able to do it by conventional means, that was certain. Modern spells assumed the user had an internal well of magical energy to tap into, and few schools outside of the most traditional included circle-work and energy raising in their curricula. Loki had researched them himself once, out of curiosity, but it had been a glancing interest, and not one deep enough to provide him with the answers he now sought.

A search through pre-Asgardian magical history should prove helpful. The Æsir had not always been gifted, and before the Ancients had attained the seiðr to form Asgard they had been little more than savages scratching a living out on the rocks. Surely he could adapt one of those primitive spells to his use.

He considered his options. The oldest codices and scrolls were kept in the Ancient Records hall, and while he would be required to register at the door his movements within the vault itself would not be monitored. Nor would it appear as suspicious for him to search those records compared to the controlled books. The latter weren't actively patrolled, but anyone going through that particular door too often would be noticed.

A spark of something like hope kindled itself in Loki's breast. Soon he would have the answers he required, and soon he could begin working on a spell that would furnish him with magic enough to get into the weapons vault. Once in the vault, well—

"Loki, what are you doing out so late?"

Loki gave a disbelieving huff. Of course his brother would be wandering the halls the same night he was, and of course Thor would wander himself down the halls Loki was already using.

_I am considering what to have for breakfast tomorrow_, he thought acidly.

Thor, of course, didn't hear him. "You should return to your chambers," he said. "It is not safe for you to walk freely, there is too much resentment in the air."

_Yes, and you can add a pageboy's fear and petty anger to the list. I feel so very threatened._ Loki made to step around Thor, but the great ox merely shifted to the side and blocked his path.

"I do not jest, Loki. They already call you the Traitor-Prince, you need not help the rumors by skulking about palace corridors at night."

Loki hissed, and made to step around his brother once again. Thor grabbed his shoulders. "Brother, I beg you, do not ignore my warning. These halls are angry."

It was too much. Loki broke his brother's hold, knocking him back a pace.

_You think I do not grasp my position with the clearest understanding I possess! You think me unaware of the stares, the whispers, the distrust and the hate! Thor, you are a fool to think otherwise. I know _exactly_ where I stand, and it is between you and everything you hold dear, for you stand between _me_ and everything_ I _desire! When I have the Gauntlet I will knock this hall down brick by brick. I will unmake Asgard, do you understand me, Thor? I will send it back to the Void the Ancients pulled it from, and I will humble you at my feet as I do it!_

The words surged through Loki, filling his mouth and backing into his throat until he though he would explode with the force of them. He glared at Thor, so far beyond rage it settled into cool madness. He felt his fingers tingle, and with a hiss he turned and rammed his fist into the nearest wall. The stonework cracked, but what made them all freeze, guard and prince alike, was the rime of frost that flared out from Loki's touch.

Loki pulled back, staring at his hands, but they were pale. He looked up at Thor, and his brother's eyes were fearful. Loki clenched his fists and spun around, tearing back down the hall. If he could not move forward, then he would retrace his steps.

He didn't think about his true heritage, or why it hadn't been restrained with the rest of his magic. He schooled himself not to think at all, and when he returned to his room he buried himself in the nearest book he could find until exhaustion claimed him and he fell asleep at his desk.


	5. Chapter 5

Sigyn was restless. It was one of the rare nights where sleep eluded; perhaps her mattress was too soft, or the light too bright. Perhaps it was that her mind was too unruly to calm and settle to sleep. She stared at the ceiling, and her thoughts wandered all over Asgard.

The gravity of the prince's judgement had demanded her father attend court, and while her father kept quarters in the Palace, Njall hated to use them. Often had Sigyn listened to him compare court politics to poking a snarled knot of angry vipers with a stick, and from her limited experience Sigyn agreed. She had little need to compare dresses or baubles, or to spread gossip. Nor did she have cause to play the subtle power games of her fellow noblewomen. She was inferior goods, and any match she made, if she made any at all, would be minor.

It may well have been the bed, or the unfamiliar echo of her rooms. Perhaps at the end of the month her father had set aside for snake-poking it would become familiar, but now she longed for her own bed, in the townhouse her father let for her in the City proper. The third time she started awake, certain something was the matter, she gave up the attempt and climbed out of bed. The gardens were familiar enough, and no one would be awake to care if a noble lady of high tier was wandering about in the middle of the night.

Toeing on a pair of slippers and wrapping her green-embroidered surcoat over her nightclothes, Sigyn stole out the door. Their suite was lavish—it had been her mother's, and her family was given to displaying their rank. The focus was the sitting room, furnished to impress with sofa and chair and chaise, all set before an enormous fireplace. The remaining rooms were gathered about on either side, public rooms toward the windows and private rooms and servants' quarters tucked behind. It was all so very formal, though softened by the moonlight pouring through the filmy curtains. _Darkness hides a multitude of sins_, she thought. _Even ostentatious architecture._

She managed to get as far as the east wing, through the libraries and just before the garden promenade, before a guard noticed her. To be fair to them, Sigyn told herself she looked much like a servant running a late-night errand, and despite the fraught political climate between the Realms, few expected an assassin to evade the Watcher's all-seeing gaze. Nevertheless, the challenge caught her by surprise.

"You, there! State your business!"

She spun, hands clenched in her coat, before she remembered she had a _right_ to be here. She was daughter of Astrid-Gyðja, Third Tier of the Nobility, and her bloodlines were among the most ancient. She was as far above this guard as the stars were above Asgard—but this was not her house, and she could not shake the sensation of trespassing. "I am Lady Sigyn Njallsdóttir. I seek peace in the gardens."

"My apologies, Lady," the guard said, bowing. "I did not mean to hinder you."

"It was no less than your duty."

He bowed again, and retreated. Sigyn shook off her nervous tension and continued on. The gardens awaited, and solitude, and the comfort of the familiar.

She found herself in the orchard, that night. Perhaps it suited her mood; the trees were ancient and slow-growing, and steady in the face of change. She wandered beneath their creaking boughs and let her troubled thoughts slip away.

A sound disturbed her meditations. It was subtle, no more than the scuff of a boot against stone, but in the still of the night it was jarring. Sigyn frowned, and slipped into the shadows beneath an apple tree. She had no desire to be seen, tonight.

Two figures hove into sight from between the rows of trees. The first was clearly a royal guard; the distinct outlines of his helmet caught Sigyn's eye. The second was not armored, dressed instead in a tunic and trousers. Judging from their fine cut, and the fact he was wandering the gardens at such odd hours, Sigyn guessed he was noble—most likely her own rank, if not higher. She tried to think of any of her peers who might be so eccentric as to take a midnight stroll through the orchards with a bodyguard.

She pondered, but could think of none—until the jarl stepped into a shaft of moonlight, illuminating deep-set eyes and the gash of a mouth sewn shut.

Prince Loki. Sigyn's foot slipped, and a stone clattered against the knotted roots of her hiding place. The prince froze, his razored gaze snapping to the shadows that cloaked her. She contemplated holding her breath and hoping he'd walk on, but the wary way he held himself said he wouldn't be so careless. She sighed and stepped out.

It had been days since she had run across him in the library and roped him into helping her carry her books. How he had scowled—but he had helped her, despite. She curtseyed.

"Apologies, my lord. I came this way looking for solitude, and it seems neither of us has found it. By your leave." She turned to go, but a pale hand reached out and snagged her arm. Loki was staring at her, brow furrowed. He looked wilder out here, under the wan light of the moon. The sharp line of his cheekbones was etched in shadow. She saw recognition cross his face. He raised his hands and touched her shoulders, where family crests would sit in formal garb, and met her gaze, questioning.

Sigyn blinked. "Oh. Sigyn Astridsdóttir, my lord," she said. Her eyes caught on the thread slicing across his mouth, lips distorted by both suture and angry swelling, and noted the executioner sewed a tidy whipstitch. She yanked her gaze back to his eyes. She knew what it was for people to dwell on unsightly features.

Loki didn't seem to notice. His brows had lifted in surprise, and he stepped back to give Sigyn a respectful nod. Her cheeks grew warm under his regard, and she wondered why she had used her mother's name. "Thank you," she replied, "but I am merely Astrid's daughter, not Astrid herself."

A pause stretched between them as Loki looked her over. Eventually, he nodded, as if in agreement. He bowed again, deeper this time, and extended his arm to encompass the garden. Sigyn frowned, not quite understanding—but then Loki was backing away, retracing his footsteps. The guard followed, casting a curious glance back over his shoulder. They vanished into the dark long before Sigyn thought to close her gaping mouth.

She turned back to tree and root, this time paying more attention to the whirling within her than to the flora without. Absently she reached for an apple, coaxed into fruiting out of season, and plucked it from its branch with a deft twist. It settled heavy in her palm, a fit match for her thoughts.

She had seen the prince before. She had seen both of them, and their father and mother. She preferred living in her family's townhouse to the court residence, but she had attended enough state functions to have seen her fill. But this was twice now she had met Lok in an informal fashion, spoken with—well. Communicated with him, at least.

That brought her around to the larger issue: Sigyn had spent two spans of time in the presence of a known traitor and murderer, condemned by his own father in front of all Asgard, and she hadn't thought of his crimes once except obliquely. In fact, she hadn't thought him unpleasant at all, aside from an annoyed glower or two. No, not unpleasant, and this night he had proven his tongue was still silver behind his sewn lips.

She couldn't help but empathize with his apparent desire to avoid other people, or with the knowledge they would always see his scars before they saw him.

Sigyn's father said once she was too kind of heart for her own good, and for the first time she thought perhaps he was right. She picked at the apple stem, and quietly made her way back to her rooms.


	6. Chapter 6

Once more Loki stepped across the Rotunda—only this time his path led not to the controlled books section, but to the stairs to the lower levels. The lowest floors of the Library housed the Royal Archives, where all the records and bureaucratic quibblings of the realm were collated in one massive storehouse. Loki glanced back to his guard; the man's face was pinched in anticipatory boredom. Not one of the ones to make note of his reading selection, then. Good. He took to the stairs.

The first floor down was considerably less ornate than those above. The stone was undressed, and the ceiling set in simple barrel vaults. Loki smelled the heavy scents of leather, ink and paper, and followed the hall to where it opened onto the stacks. He looked about. The overall feeling, at odds with the soaring architecture on the floors above, was one of compression. Countless shelves lined the gaps between columns, forming poky aisles that drew the eye into seeming infinity.

Loki scanned the floor, and found a circle of blue marble inlaid into the stone. He stepped on it. The tracer spell, activated by his weight, popped up, manifesting as a soft-glowing, blue ball that hovered at head-height. "Input?" it asked.

Loki cleared his throat, and his guard, peering down the nearest aisle, jerked around. Flushing, Loki pulled out his journal and a pencil and scribbled a note. He held it up for the guard to read.

The man's face scrunched into a confused frown. "Search birth records for Sigyn Astridsdóttir?" The spell flared white.

"Records found: Record of Issue of Arnlaug Liulrson, Third Tier; Record of Issue of Njall Hallvardson, Third Tier."

Not for the first time Loki found himself wishing Asgardian naming conventions were less obfuscating. The Mist Spirits had a decent system—each individual had a single, unique name composed around the family theme. He scrawled another note on the pad and held it up to the guard.

"Um. 'Search: Issue of Arnlaug Liulfrson'?"

Another flare—"Follow"—and the tracer was off, bobbing down the corridor. Loki followed it, tucking the pad back in his belt. He ignored the weight of the guard's eyes on his back. They trailed the ball down one long, claustrophobic aisle after another, taking sharp turns around pillars and darting between shelves to keep pace. It dropped to a shelf at knee-height, and fastened itself to the spine of a book. "Record located," it chimed. "Input?"

"Stay here," the guard said hurriedly, eyes flicking to Loki, but Loki didn't acknowledge him. The tracer flickered for a moment, then detached itself from the book to hover once again at head-height. Loki pulled out the indicated volume. It was thick, leather-bound and heavily embossed. A stylized depiction of Yggdrasil crawled up the front cover. He turned it over and flipped through the blank pages at the end, looking for the most recent entry. It was the record for a boy, born three days ago, named Knut Arnlaugson. Loki flipped back a page at a time until he came to the name 'Sigyn Njallsdóttir.' Pausing, he read the entry.

_Sigyn Njallsdóttir, Third Tier (elevated to Third Tier by formal recognition of mother, performed by proxy by father, Mánadagr, 31 Gor-mánuðr, AJW 153). Born: Frjádagr, 23 Gor-mánuðr, AJW 153. Father: Njall Hallvardson, Eighth Tier (elevated to Third Tier via marriage Mánadagr, 12 Skerpla, BJW 356; C-R GR3342: Record of Issue of Njall Hallvardson, Third Tier). Mother: Astrid Leifsdóttir, Third Tier (elevated to Third Third tier by formal recognition of father Sunnudagr, 15 Sól-mánuðr, GP 25). Place of birth: Glaðsheimr, Astridholmr. Date of record: Mánadagr, 31 Gor-mánuðr, AJW 153. Note: was born with left unilateral cleft lip. C-R HR3985 Vol 23, §158: Neonatal Statistics for the Third Tier, Jól AJW 153-Tví-mánuðr AJW 154. _

He had found his Sigyn. He recorded the salient information and cross-referencing numbers his notebook, and replaced the volume on its shelf. He poked the tracer, then flipped to a new page as it flared awake.

"Inquiry?"

Loki held up the notebook. The guard sighed. "Search: Healer Records 3985, volume 23, section 158."

"Follow." The spell flared white and wafted down the aisle.

OOO

Sigyn added another book to her stack, then headed back to the private study room she had reserved for her use. Technically she was taking leave, but inspiration ignored regular office hours and she was taking advantage while the idea was fresh. She eased open the door and piled the books beside the others already jamming the table. Squaring her shoulders, she settled in to hash out theory.

It had been established long before Sigyn's forebears ever created Asgard that the universe ran on set magical concepts. Mass could only be redistributed, not gained or lost; the force behind a lodestone was intimately connected to that of lightning; and unless it was artificially accelerated, nothing moved faster than light.

That last was what consumed Sigyn's mind. Her collegium, and many of the other magical collegia of Asgard, had joined forces to try and recreate the technology behind Bifröst, in hopes that it might someday be rebuilt. Even Thor, the Crown-Prince, who had never before paid any mind to the academic pursuits of his future kingdom, was pushing for a breakthrough. Upon request, his funding had been immediate and generous.

The quandary of Bifröst was this: no one knew how it accelerated its passengers, and one would say it impossible but for the fact Bifröst did it anyway. Sigyn was studying blueprints of the machinery below the observatory in an attempt to piece together the whole. It was not unlike trying to build a Midgardian internal combustion engine without understanding combustion, and looking at only one piston at a time. Sigyn was clever, but even with models it was taking ages.

Which was the reason she was at the library that day. Her theory was this: Bifröst was an inherently magical structure; perhaps it was not the materials that went into its construction that were important so much as it was the flow of magic within. She needed to think like a sorcerer, not an engineer. With reams of magical observation of Bifröst to one side and stacks of theory of magical illusion to the other, she set about making a magical model. She spun out a thread of magic, setting it to hover above the table, and began to mold it into the baseplate foundation of the Bifröst observatory.

Two hours later she began to realize the monumental size and complexity of her undertaking.

The biggest problem the Bifröst engineers were facing was that the whole system made no engineering sense. The machinery was lopsided, inefficient; now, Sigyn was discovering, Bifröst made no magical sense, either. It ignored the natural ley lines of the formation in favor of artificial—and thus inferior—pathways. Even the model protested, and Sigyn had to alternately bully and coax her magic into cooperating. Finally, after spending fifteen minutes wedging two struts together that fought it like poles on a lodestone, she sighed and sat back, rubbing her eyes. Mentally knotting the stream of her magic, she tied off the flow and sent the model into hibernation. It vanished, and she blinked away the after-images.

She was on the right track, she knew it. Had the wreckage of the observatory remained they could have studied it, and it was possible they could have reverse-engineered the thought processes behind its construction. It had fallen into the void, however, and they were left grasping at straws. Sigyn knew her model was key, but she didn't have the skill to properly flesh it out. Her talents were in static magics, not dynamic; reality was her forte, not illusion. Even so minor an illusion as a scaled down three-dimensional replica—and not even a true-to-life representation, but a magical signature—strained her capabilities.

Quietly she rose from the table, leaving her books and notes where they lay, and stepped out. She needed to clear her head, and consider the possibility of making her project a joint effort. The Asgard Fine Arts Collegium might have someone whose talents she could use; she would draft a proposal to her supervisor that evening.

Her feet carried her through the Rotunda and out the east doors, once again finding herself on the terrace before the garden promenade. She leaned against the balustrade and inhaled the earthy scents of compost and grass. Her thoughts wandered loose, and she found herself thinking back to the night before. To the Traitor-Prince. To—she wouldn't lie—his mouth.

What would it be like, she wondered, to have one's lips sewn shut? He wouldn't starve or thirst thanks to Idunn's Draught, but surely he missed it? Missed eating chilled melon on a summer's day, or a sipping hot tea in the cool of the morning? What about the social joys of eating amongst friends? And speaking of friends, what of conversation? He had conveyed his meaning well enough last night, but Sigyn didn't believe for a minute charades could carry him through the back-and-forth of an intense discussion. His punishment had effectively isolated him from everyone around him. She supposed it made sense—keep the sedition contained, muzzle the rabid wolf—but it seemed heartless.

She shook her thoughts away and turned back to the cool depths of the library. She had notes to gather and books to file, and a formal request to pen.

She was down to her final two books, both on advanced external artificial sensory manipulation and both utterly useless to her, when she saw him. Once more it was the guard's attire that first caught her attention, then the pale face of the prince. He was seated at one of the long reading tables, a small stack of books at his elbow and one open before him. He shifted as she watched, leaning back to pull the book into his lap. He reached up to trail a finger against his lips—an unconscious gesture, she supposed, thwarted by the stitches. Grimacing, he dropped his hand, flicking his eyes up and around.

They caught on her where she stood in the archway, and they stared at each other across the floor of the reading room. Sigyn acquiesced to the nudging of _urðr_ and changed her path to greet him. To her surprise, Loki's eyes widened and a faint flush rose to his cheeks. His hands fluttered over the book in his lap, and he reached toward the pile on the table, as though trying to hide them. When she got closer, Sigyn realized why.

They were collations of scholarly journals, and each volume held at least one of her published articles. She knew—she had checked them herself, when the printings had come out. Loki shrugged, looking almost sheepish, and held up the book in his lap. It was _her_ book, that she had published three years ago, on theories on extra-Asgardian concepts of technology. It had taken her almost a decade to collate the data needed to reach her conclusions, and upon publication it had send minor ripples through the engineering community. Most critics agreed it was a rather obscure topic, if well-written and -researched.

"Oh," she said. "You're reading my book." She winced, clenching her own books to her chest in embarrassment.

Loki set it on the table and pulled out a much-abused notebook. He wrote something on it, then flipped it around and slid it to her. Sigyn glanced at him, and leaned over to read what he had written.

_It's good. Somewhat narrow cross-section of Midgardian communication technology, but stunning comparison between Fire Giant and Mist Spirit musical traditions._

It was Sigyn's turn to flush, and she sank into the chair opposite. "Thank you. Most said it was too much of a special-interest topic to be anything but a curiosity." She stacked her books on the table.

Loki reclaimed his notebook and wrote something more. _All knowledge is worth having_, it read. Then he tapped his pencil against her books, a questioning look in his eyes.

"Oh! I was hoping to find some way to improve my illusion craft," she said. "I'm rubbish at it, the best I can hope for is drawing stick-figures, really. But I need it for a model I'm building, so I've been investigating."

_These are no good_, Loki wrote. _Too advanced. More for virtual reality than simple model-making._

Sigyn sighed. "Yes, I deduced that myself. Part of it is that I have no idea where to start. If I were _actually _molding stone or _actually _throwing fire I could do it without thinking, but illusion was never my forte."

Loki gave her a strange look. _Does it have to be illusion? Real models are just as good as illusory._

Sigyn huffed a laugh. "I'm an engineer. I have real models dancing through my dreams at night. No, I needed to model the magical flows of a structure, and I needed to see them without having the structure in the way, if that makes any sense."

Loki sat back, considering. _May I see what you have so far?_

She hesitated. It wasn't much, just a stuttered breath and pause too long, but it was enough, and Loki saw it. His face went utterly blank, and the shadows in his eyes deepened. He very carefully wrote down his next words, and his knuckles were white around the pencil.

_I can see you would rather I didn't. Forget I asked._

It was almost insulting, how ready he was to think little of her. "It's Bifröst," she blurted, deciding on the spot to share only the unvarnished truth. "I'm one of the researchers working to rebuild the observatory. My hesitation was because of your part in the destruction; yes, I considered you might sabotage our efforts. I discounted this as foolish, as it was your brother who destroyed the bridge, not you. I also considered you might seek to finish your attempt to destroy Jötunheimr. Do you?"

The most curious expression flickered across Loki's features, a mixture of surprise, amusement and intrigue. He shook his head. Sigyn squinted at him, but he was either sincere or a better liar than the rumors said. She nodded.

"Good. Then I have no cause for concern. I would welcome a fresh eye." She bulled forward and loosed her magic, retrieving her sleeping model and flushing it back to life. The unsteady lines of it quivered for a moment before settling into position.

Loki's gaze flickered between it and her for a few moments, speculation and caution plain to see as the nose on his face. He scratched out a question.

_Are you normally this honest?_

Sigyn huffed a laugh. "Blunt, you mean? No. You bring out the best in me."

Loki snorted. _That would be a new trick._ He looked to the model, and his gaze sharpened. _The layout is awkward._

"I thought so, too. It makes it difficult to hold the forms in place. But the records were very clear that this is how it should be laid out."

He tapped the end of the pencil against the paper. He seemed to be thinking very hard. He scribbled something down and slid the notebook over almost carelessly.

_I could help you with your illusion craft, if you wished._

Sigyn jerked her head up from the page. Loki was staring at a mural across from them with particular intensity, but as she watched he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. It was... endearing, Sigyn decided, the way he tried not to show how much he wanted her to say yes.

Who was she, to deny the assistance of the finest sorcerer in illusory magics Asgard had ever seen? "I would like that," she said, and the shadows about his eyes almost faded away.


	7. Chapter 7

Sigyn was waiting for him, he could see her outline through the frosted glass of the study room. She was hunched forward over something; a book on some obscure flower, if he read her right. Loki left his guard to stand outside the door and stepped in.

She looked up as the door opened, eyes distant and lost in the world of her book. She blinking at him, and set the book aside. "You're here."

The woman had a mastery of the obvious that even Loki, step-brother to Thor, marveled at. Her obliviousness, however, Loki attributed not so much to a _lack_ of thoughts as to thoughts not entirely set in the here and now, thoughts but a few steps out of sync with the rest of the world's.

He pulled out his journal and pencil and took the chair opposite her. Stacks of books and scattered notes were heaped on the table between them. Loki read the title of the one closest to him. _The Illusion of Reality_. He cocked an eyebrow, sketched out a message.

_Planning on taking deep philosophy with your beginning art course?_

Sigyn flushed, ducking her head. "I told you, I had no idea where to start. I pulled anything with the word 'illusion' in it."

Loki sighed theatrically, shaking his head. _Shoddy research from a sorcerer._

"Well, I am on leave. I can afford to be lazy."

He felt the corner of his lips quirk up, pulling against the vartari. He doubted he would ever get used to the feeling of his lips tugging against each other, of feeling the thread not only _on_ his lips but _in_ them, as well. He pushed the thought aside. _Let's see the model._

Her face blanked for a moment, and her model swirled to life. Loki ignored it; instead, he looked past to watch how she unspooled her magic. It was cautious, heavy-handed. Typical, he supposed, of the concrete needs of an engineer. With no reality but ephemeral light into which to focus her magic she grew hesitant and overcompensated. He snapped his fingers to get her attention, and shook his head when he had it.

_Trying too hard. You don't 'see' magic, you feel it. Lighten your touch._

She frowned, a wrinkle denting itself between her eyes, and she tried again, squinting in concentration as she "felt" her magic. This effort was far more crude. She was thinking too hard. He snapped his fingers again.

"I was feeling it!"

_You were attacking it in a back alley and going through its pockets. Finesse. It's feeling music working in you and dancing, not hammering a nail._

Her lips pursed. "I'd be better at hammering a nail."

Loki felt a flare of exasperation. _Gardening, then. Sun overhead, soil in your fingers. Magic is subtle, it is an art, not merely a tool. Think of it like encouraging a plant to grow. You don't stretch it on the rack to make it taller, you give it what it needs and sit back and let it grow itself._

Sigyn blinked, then closed her eyes. She did nothing for a moment, then at once a slow bloom of magic, still cautious but far more refined, spilled from her hands. She nudged it into position, and instead of wobbling it went where she directed and held fast. She opened her eyes. The model glowed at her from where it sat on top of a book.

"I imagined I was setting vines to a frame," she said, voice soft. Her eyes were wide with gentle wonder.

_Most magic is visualization. Almost all of illusion is._ Loki couldn't quite stop how his gaze caught on hers, how her hazel eyes drew his own. He hadn't felt that innocent in what seemed like centuries. He thought back to his early days of magical exploration. It had seemed a glorious new world had opened up, and the possibilities had been endless. He felt a twinge of nostalgia and sadness for that boy he had been.

"You're a good teacher," she said. "Excellent, in fact; not many can teach without speaking."

Loki's mood went sour, and it must have shown on his face, for she rolled her eyes. "Why pretend it's not there? Your lips are sewn. Avoiding the issue won't change it."

_I don't need pity._

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Better pity than scorn, Prince. But I was not pitying you, I was admiring your teaching ability. It was a compliment."

Loki scowled, sitting back to pick at his palm. This woman made no sense to him. She was demure and blushing one moment, quirky and clueless the next, then sharp and confrontational.

Then she opened her mouth and took it one step further. "It is true, what they say? That you're adopted?"

Loki stiffened in his chair. He made to get up, but she reached across the table to grab his forearm. "No, please, I'm sorry," she said, eyes wide and cheeks red. "I just thought, as long as we were getting the big, glaring issues out of the way we might as well start with the biggest."

Loki grabbed for his notebook. He pressed the pencil down so hard it nearly tore through the paper. _I hardly think that is the biggest issue, nor is it your business._

Sigyn tilted her head in acknowledgement, but her face had gained a stubborn set that made Loki nervous. "Conceded. The biggest issues are that you betrayed your _rumored_ adoptive kingdom by offering her to our enemies, whom _it is said_ are your native people, then tried to kill your _supposed_ step-brother when the plan fell through. Then you went and tried to conquer Midgard and said brother had to come and get you and set things to rights." She sat back in her chair, folding her arms over her chest. "For my part, I was born with a cleft lip and have no marriage prospects. Oh, and I behave in a manner unseemly of a jarl of my station."

Had been able, he would have gaped at her. He drew the notebook once again to him and wrote. He slid it back in a daze. _If it's any comfort, I doubt I have many marriage prospects, either_.

She snorted, then it tumbled into a full laugh. "Since both of us are such hopeless cases it is therefore decided. We should marry each other and put an end to our misery."

The good mood he had gained upon hearing her laugh evaporated. _Marriage to a Jötunn would not alleviate any miseries, at all._

Sigyn said nothing for a time. He didn't look at her, but he felt her gaze upon him. Finally, she spoke. "My father was Eighth Tier, did you know that?"

Loki did, but he wasn't telling her that.

"He was, is, a country lord, not of any remarkable lineage. One day a high-born noblewoman's horse went lame while on the road to the City. He invited her to stay at his manor. They fell in love, contrary to either family's expectations, and married. I was the product of their marriage.

"I tell you this because I have spent my entire life hearing my father was a shameless social climber, that he only married my mother for the title she could give him. I have heard that my mother had no taste whatsoever, and that she was foolish to love so unwisely as my father. That she was tainting her bloodline, that she should have chosen a better match for herself." She paused and took a deep breath.

"You do not have to be enemy peoples for a marriage to be seen as inferior."

Loki swallowed. _That is not what I meant._

"I knew what you meant. I ignored it because it was stupid."

His heart jolted in his chest. _Then you just told me a story apropos of nothing at all._

"Oh, no. You admitted you were a frost giant. In return, I admitted I was of a muddied noble line. That's far worse, you see."

Loki heard himself make a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. It was swallowed, but strangely loud in his ears. Sigyn must have thought so, as well, for her eyes were wide.

"I've wondered..." she said, then trailed off, flushing.

Loki scribbled across the page. _Don't stop, now. Think of all the awkward questions you could be asking._

She flushed deeper, then said in a rush, "Do you ever get hungry? I know the Draught is supposed to last you for the duration, but surely it can't block the desire to eat."

Loki bowed his head and ran his tongue against the stitches. _No. I don't hunger. But I miss the taste._

Sigyn pondered that for a moment, staring at the words he had written, before standing up. "Let's go for a walk," she said. "It's uncomfortable in here, now."

He blinked up at her, then glanced at the stack of books and papers she had barely touched. He shrugged and rose, following her out, and stood aside as she locked the door.

It was an odd, halting progress they made. Sigyn either made a comment that went unanswered, or she paused while he wrote and she read his reply. Sometimes they would stand in place for several minutes, exchanging ideas. They settled eventually in the Rotunda, leaning against the second-floor railing under the dome. Loki's notebook rested between them where both could see, and Loki's guard stood several paces away, beside a column and where they could pretend they didn't see.

"I've always been interested in plants," Sigyn said. "Maybe it was because I spent so much time at the Manor as a child—we went there every summer, this is the first in many years we haven't escaped to the country—I was always exploring the forest or up to my elbows in the kitchen garden. Every day Father would ask me what I'd found, what I'd seen, where I'd gone, and I was always building fantastic cities out of stones and acorns and leaves and then besetting the villagers with a plague of stone giants, so I would recount to him the tales of noble jarls who had come to the rescue. And Father, he would listen to these stories with the greatest attention, as though I were a bard myself. So, I suppose it's chance, really—I could just have easily become a rock hobbyist rather than a part-time horticulturalist."

Loki half-smirked at that. _What a shame. Rocks are ever so gripping._

"Only so far as they offer anchor to my plants," Sigyn replied primly. "But what of your hobbies? Surely you had those in the grand, noble childhood of a prince of Odin."

What hobbies, indeed. Loki brushed shavings from his pencil off the balcony as he considered his answer. _I read, mostly, or told myself stories. Mother would say causing havoc was my main pastime, and it's true_—_there is nothing so glorious as getting away with a good prank. When I grew old enough I took to magic with a will._

Sigyn's eyes rose from the page to look at him, and he knew the stiff set of his shoulders had betrayed him. "There is something more, isn't there."

_You read too much into things._

"Only because you don't write enough."

Loki huffed. _Some things are private._ _Suffice to say my sorcery was not as highly regarded as Thor's martiality. _

"That's foolish," Sigyn said. She said it straightforwardly and without condemnation, as though remarking it was a mighty drop to the floor below. "I know little of war, I admit it. My father served his time in the army well before I was born. Moreover I am a woman, and thus encouraged into the magical fields, but to deny a child's preferences, especially when both are useful in their own ways..." She turned to face him, leaning against the balustrade. "Was there no one to listen to your stories?"

Loki shrugged, uncomfortable. _My mother was always willing, but it didn't help me to cling to her skirts._

"I wish I knew my mother. She died birthing me." Of course Sigyn would latch onto the message he didn't mean to convey.

_You could say I never knew my birth-mother, as well. Or my sire. No_—_that's not true. I knew him, after a fashion._

Sigyn swallowed. "The Allfather said you were guilty of patricide at your sentencing."

Loki stared at her, face blank. _Yes._

"Oh." Her eyes flickered off into the empty space of the Rotunda. Loki watched the line of her jaw as she inhaled. "Why did you?"

He considered telling her what he had told the Þing, but Sigyn had been honest with him, and it felt... odd, not to be perfectly honest in return._ It was better than being his son. _

She was silent for a time, and when she spoke her voice was soft. "I don't think I will ever be able to understand."

Loki felt the irritating need justify himself. _He was the reason Odin never accepted me fully. I was a trophy, not a son. _

Sigyn frowned. "Loki... He named you his son at the trial that condemned you a traitor. If he hadn't accepted you he would have disowned you."

She was... No. Loki shook his head. She didn't understand.

Sigyn sighed. "I don't know what to think around you, Loki Odinson. One moment you're witty and charming, the next you're the murderer. I think I could come to like the charmer, but the murderer is... unsettling."

Unsettling. He felt embers of anger, banked against scorching her, flare up. _Why do you stand beside me, if you find me unsettling?_

She swallowed, then met his gaze, resolute. "Because you need a friend."

Loki's brows raised, amused. _Do I?_

"Yes, you do. You have guards and enemies, but there is no one—save, perhaps, your brother—who will take your part, and you would refuse his help."

His lip tried to curl at mention of his brother. _My brother is a fool._

She looked away. "I do not know him, but I know he cried for you, Loki."

_He is __weak_. Loki thought of—Thor had been his _friend_, his _ally_, and in the end even he had cast Loki aside to watch him fall. Thor had everything and Loki had nothing. Sigyn couldn't possibly understand. The betrayal, from his father, his mother, even his _brother_, was too great to explain.

Sigyn pulled back from the look on his face. "Maybe I should go," she murmured. She had wrapped her surcoat around herself, covering her dress. She was a bright flare of color against the pale stone behind her, and she was slipping away.

Reflexively he grabbed her arm, and out of the corner of his eye he saw his guard straighten to a readier stance. Loki flushed at the indignity, but gentled his touch. "Another time," she said, looking away and pulling her arm out of his grasp. "I think perhaps I have poked too strongly."

He scrabbled for his notebook. _When?_ Loki barely knew this woman, but looking at her, fragile yet sinewy strong, he didn't want this to be their last meeting. He held out the notebook.

She took it in her slim hands and read it, then read over his previous replies. She considered, and Loki had to swallow his heart down from his throat as he waited. "Tomorrow, at midday," she said at last. "Meet me in the formal gardens. I promise we won't talk about you at all." She handed the book back to him with a wobbly smile.

Loki nodded. Sigyn curtseyed and turned in a swirl of skirts. Loki watched her progress around the edge of the Rotunda, vanishing and appearing between columns, flashes of green and umber in the cool light, and he couldn't turn away. She glanced back at him at the top of the stairs, a flick of her eyes as she brushed back her hair, and slipped down them with easy, eager grace. She crossed the floor and disappeared under the gallery to parts unknown.

Loki felt something in his chest unclench, and he leaned on his elbows against the rail.

His guard sidled up beside him. "If you do anything to harm her, I promise we will string you up, prince or no." His voice was quiet.

Loki pulled himself to his full height. Felt his stare go icy and the temperature drop. He sidled in close, intimate as a lover, and the man froze, eyes widening. Loki dug the point of his dagger a little deeper, nipping at vulnerable skin, before he stepped back and sheathed it. He glared at the man before he turned and followed in Sigyn's footsteps.

_You would be dead before you caught me_.


	8. Chapter 8

It was Loki who arrived first, this time. Sigyn stood aside and watched him as he paced, back and forth, beside the hedge leading into the formal gardens. His guard watched him, a more hostile look on his face than Sigyn had seen before. She thought of the venom in Loki the day before. Her hands made to knot in her surcoat, but she had left it at home. She made do with her skirts, instead.

Loki may have been a sorcerer, but he was a warrior too, by duty if not by calling. He outmatched her physically in every way. He was taller, stronger, assuredly faster. Nor did he have qualms with killing. She had rumors of his death toll on Midgard. Humans were mortal and died as easily as their dandelions lost fluff, but that was hardly an excuse.

He could kill her just as easily.

She stood by her claim, however, that he, even he, needed a friend. And if he would not accept his own brother as advocate then she would step into the gap. Steeling her nerves, she stepped forward to greet him.

His head came up as she approached, and for a brief moment she saw naked relief upon his sharp face. He masked it as he bowed to her, a shallow incline, but a deep honor coming from a prince. She curtseyed in reply. "Highness," she said, and she knew it wasn't her imagination that she saw a flicker of hurt in his eyes.

"Have you been to the Botannical Reserve, before, my lord?" It was an inane question; of course Loki had been to the Reserve, his mother was its primary benefactor. She cringed, but Loki took it in good humor, nodding his affirmation.

"I thought to show it to you," Sigyn said. Loki gestured her onward, and she led the way.

The fjorðholmr that bore Odin's Hall up from the sea was taken up almost entirely by the palace and its outbuildings, those both civic and more mundane. The east side, aside from the two pleasure gardens on the north face of the hall, was the sole portion of the holmr given to horticulture. The formal gardens were extensive, insofar as the constraints of land and hall permitted, and the walk to the bridge was long. Sigyn didn't care for the formal gardens overmuch. They were too precise for her taste.

Presently they came to the end of both the path and the holmr, and to either side the land dropped away to the roaring surf below. It was a formidable vista, but Sigyn had no eyes for it. She made for the bridge that leapt the chasm to the adjacent fjorðholmr, that bore the Reserve. The wind was scented with both salt and warming stone, and the loamy scent of growing things rose thick.

The wind also played havoc with Sigyn's hair. she pushed back at it, annoyed at the strands that escaped her braid, and caught Loki watching, eyes unreadable. She pulled her hands away, blushing.

The landing on the opposite side was hidden in a grove of ask and embla trees, twined about each other in their symbiotic dance, and with so fortuitous a greeting the Asgard Botannical Reserve began.

The Reserve was renowned throughout the Nine Realms. It contained cuttings from every planet along Yggdrasil's branches, from delicate stars-in-black-ice from Jötunheimr, tended in special coolhouses to mimic the low sun and temperature of their home world, to the Sessrúmnir Garden complex, bursting with the illusionary and psychedelic flora of its patron's native Vanaheim. The Reserve was said to be the Queen's greatest pleasure, and indeed, she kept a complement of groundskeepers large enough in number to rival the Einherjar to tend it throughout the year.

Of all the gardens, Sigyn preferred those of Midgard best. They were not as flashy as some of the others, nor as exotic, but they were expansive, and did not require specialty clothing to visit. Nor were they popular. Sigyn could easily spend an entire day without seeing more than one or two others in their bounds. It was there she led Loki. She tried not to dwell on the irony of leading him through gardens devoted to a realm he had tried to rip asunder.

Despite her reservations, Sigyn couldn't help but smile when they stepped off the main road down the trail that led to Midgard. This was her pleasure, her hobby, her home away from home. When she wasn't researching, at the collegium or tinkering in her workshops she was here, savoring the feel of being around life unbridled, or at home, growing her own gardens. She turned to Loki. "I thought we would see the temperate rainforest first," she said. "It's closest, and less strenuous than some of the other gardens." He nodded, glancing to the foliage around them before looking back to her.

She led them down a narrow file of stairs cut into the cliff face, descending nearly halfway down the holmr before alighting on a narrow walk. The air grew thicker, more moisture-laden, and it settled dewy and damp on their clothes and hair. Sigyn hoped their guard didn't mind having to polish his armor and oil his leather this evening.

The walk widened, and suddenly they were choked in with trees and mosses and sweet-smelling flowers. "This is Svartálfheimr," Sigyn said. "Actually, it's Svartálfheimr's moon. The planet proper is above us, where there is more sun and a tropical biome can be more easily recreated. You see those trees? Those are Gryllyg trees. You see how they tangle up their roots into balls? They do that because that's where they keep their seed cache, and if they didn't every hungry animal in the area would come for a meal. They still come, but few can get in. Anyway, when the time comes, every five years or so, the seed caches will burst open and scatter their seeds everywhere within a hundred paces. They come out with such force that some seeds get embedded in the bark of their neighbors, and they'll grow there." She reached up to touch a sapling sprouting from the side of a larger tree. "They close down this path when they come into season, it's too dangerous for visitors. I've heard it, though. It sounds unbelievable, the explosions echo across the fjord and I swear each one sounds like ten packages of firecandles going off at once.

"This past spring was Gryllyg season. You can still see the marks." She pointed to a dent in the rock face by Loki's head. The stone was lighter in the gash, torn raw from the lode and not yet weathered into a darker scar. His eyebrows went up, and he looked on the trees with new respect.

Sigyn smiled, and led him deeper, pointing out blue tersids and an immature thomm vine, which curled up from the soil to wrap itself about their ankles as they passed.

The division between Svartálfheimr and Midgard was a sharp one, marked by a vast wall hewn from the rock. The trail clung to it, swinging them out beyond the level they had been walking, and Sigyn showed Loki the great terraces that had been cut into the stone to allow the gardens to grow on the sheer cliff faces. They curved around the edge of the wall, staring down at the breaking water below, and back to the terrace on the other side. Loki looked up; Sigyn followed his gaze, and saw the massive steps, spilling greenery in every direction, etched like the stairs of the Ancients to the summit.

"Most of it is on the cliffs, you see," she explained. "The top of the holmr is reserved for the plains biomes, from both Midgard and Álfheimr, and also the labs and offices that keep the Reserve running. I've always wanted to see the vermifarm." At Loki's puzzled look she elaborated. "On Midgard there are small invertebrates call 'worms', they eat through the soil and enrich it with their droppings. They're part of the reason Midgard is so ecologically rich: it's because it's home to so many more _creatures_ than the rest of the Realms. Bacteria, protozoa, worms, insects—it's not that Midgard is unstable as people say, it's that it's full to bursting with life.

"The worms condition our soils to the needs of the Midgard plants. I've seen pictures of them, they look like tiny snakes, but pink, slimy and headless. They're hideous. I want to see them."

Loki snorted, giving her a wry glance that, had the stitches not been in place, might have been a smile. Sigyn smiled in return, and the two of them, with the guard lagging behind, stepped into Midgard.

Sigyn could tell Loki was not overly impressed with what he saw. She wasn't sure if it was his pre-established prejudices against Midgard, or if he simply wasn't as fanatical about plants as she was, but while she would have been scrambling all over to see the new growth of red columbine, or tracking the progress of bracket fungi on a trunk, he stayed mainly to the trail, occasionally stopping to stare up at a towering tree or a stand of bright flowers.

She poked through the undergrowth, feeling for the tell-tale jet of moist air. When she found it, tucked away in a copse of gnarled southern beeches, she waved him over. "Water is the key ingredient, in this ecosystem. Our own climate doesn't have enough ambient moisture or annual precipitation to sustain any rainforest, temperate or tropical. So the groundskeepers place these—" she parted the ferns to reveal a small pot, belching mist, "—to keep it hydrated. Part of the duties of a groundskeeper is to replenish these pots when the chemical reactions run down." She shook her head at his questioning look. "No, I don't know. Probably some combination of hydrogen and oxygen, fused together for the betterment of the world." She smiled crookedly when he rolled his eyes.

"There is such amazing diversity in Midgard," Sigyn said. "I've already said it, but it bears repeating. After this biome will be the temperate deciduous forest, above is the tropical rainforest, below and ahead of us are the taiga and tundra biomes. Generally the higher you go the hotter the climate, and the lower the cooler the climate. The other realms, including our own, only show two or three climates at most, but Midgard has them all. It's a fragile landscape, but incredibly beautiful."

Loki was watching her, that unreadable look on his face, again. Sigyn flushed and turned aside. Her hands caught nervously on her skirts, and she forced them open, smoothing out the fabric she had wrinkled up. They were still kneeling by the mist pot, and his hair was starting to curl in the humidity. He was so close. The line of his jaw was distinct against the dark understory when he turned.

She stood, inhaled and let her breath out. Beside her, Loki climbed to his feet, and she found her eyes tracing the breadth of his shoulders, the way the collar of his tunic gapped open at the neck, before she caught herself and turned back to the trail. "I think you might like the desert biomes," she said, and if her voice was higher with tension, well, she said it wasn't. "They're up ahead, between the grasslands and temperate forest."

She led the way to the stairs hidden against the cliff wall, and they rose above the canopy to the terrace above. Loki paused to stare across the vista. A vast swath of green swept from the dividing wall to disappear into the curvature of the holmr, and instead of stretching forward into the distance the foliage dropped away in the foreground. Across the fjord, the domes and towers of the City glittered golden in the sunlight.

They made their way through the gardens, slipping around barrier walls or scaling precipitous staircases, and the whole way Sigyn kept up a steady commentary on the plantlife, the interrelation of the biomes, and the mechanisms behind the Reserve's functions.

Finally they reached the semi-arid desert biome, and Sigyn felt something inside herself loosen. Perhaps it suited her temperament; the desert was spare and unadorned, and frank in its hostility. Thorns were prominently displayed rather than veiled behind graceful blooms and honeyed scents. Sigyn found it a balm. She loved all plants, but walking in the desert, with its dry, clean air and stubborn growths, was a rare pleasure.

She lost track of her commentary and she ceased to guide, instead wandering through the landscape. She stopped periodically, sometimes to examining the upwelling of sap in an acacia, others to listen to the arthritic creak of dried wood as it bobbed in the breeze. There, moths fluttered past to pollinate a patch of bulbous cacti; closer, tiny yellow primroses sat with their throats sealed against the sunlight. The air was redolent with the scents of myrrh and sagebrush.

A soft, impatient sigh brought her back to reality, and she turned from where she stood beneath a pomegranate tree to see Loki, and behind him his guard, staring sheepishly at her. "I apologize," she said. "I just—I'm particularly fond of this one."

Loki waved it aside. He looked about, noticed the ring of _Asclepias tuberosa_ growing around the tree. He pointed to it and looked to her, eyebrow raised. Sigyn stifled a smile at his obvious attempt to engage her. "That is butterfly weed," she said. "Midgard is home to a certain variety of insect called a butterfly, not unlike a moth, but more brightly colored, and they flock to those flowers when they bloom." She touched a sprig of the orange flowers. "They're among my favorites. They're so cheerful."

Loki stared at her, then pointed to a clump of cacti poking up from the ground, lumpy and gray and each bearing a white flower exactly in the top of it. "_Lophophora williamsii_. Also called dumpling cactus, but more commonly referred to as peyote. It's a potent psychotropic."

Loki's brows went up, and he looked back to the unassuming little cactuses. For the first time that day he pulled out his notebook, and wrote her a question. _Are there many Midgardian plants with such effects?_

Sigyn blinked in surprise. "There are a fair number. Enough for herb lore to be common in humans' shamanic past."

Loki's gaze sharpened. _Humans have a magical history?_

"Not... I wouldn't call it magical as we would. Their word 'science' more accurately reflects magical principle. But yes, they did have primitive rituals not unlike our own, and their plants are just as potent as ours, given the right quantity."

Loki stared at the peyote buttons, a curious, considering sort of look on his face. Sigyn frowned at it, and almost asked him what he was thinking—until she remembered the day before, and admitted she might not want to know. She would give him the benefit of the doubt, for now.

They left the Reserve soon after, each burdened with deep thoughts. When they returned to the garden promenade, and the east wing doors, Loki took her hand and bowed over it, every inch the well-bred prince. Sigyn raised her hand from his to brush his cheek, and he started, flicking his pale eyes up to meet hers. Sigyn flushed, but didn't look away. The moment deepened, and they sank into each other's gaze until the guard, mostly forgotten over the course of the day, cleared his throat and shuffled his feet.

Sigyn drew away then, brushing down his arm as she passed him to enter into the library.

Perhaps she liked him more than she would a friend. It was possible. It was also dangerous—and yet, she found she didn't care. She would see Loki again, it was as certain as the sun's rise and fall.

She walked back to her apartment, her mind full of the image of his long-fingered hands and her heart full of conflict.

OOO

Loki sat at his desk, comparing his notes. After he and Sigyn had parted ways the day before he had found a tome detailing Midgardian plant correspondences and "liberated" it from the library. It lay open before him now, and he referred to it from time to time, furiously scribbling down relevant information.

The spell was almost ready. A week, maybe two, and he would have magic enough to break into the vault.

He felt a momentary twinge of guilt for having used Sigyn, for having abused her trust. She trusted him. It was foolish of her and she knew it, yet she trusted him anyway. Loki couldn't help protecting that tiny... _seedling_ of a thought like it was the greatest treasure the weapons vault could never yield. Sigyn trusted him.

Loki shook it aside, tucked it away where he couldn't see it. He had a purpose, and that was to obtain the Gauntlet before Thanos came to Asgard for Loki and retrieved it himself. It was to find those plants of Midgard, innocuous to suspicious eyes, that would assist him in his cobbled-together spell. He reviewed the list.

Peyote, so he could see magics to which he was otherwise blind. Acacia leaves, burnt to enhance personal power. Garlic, to protect him from magical backlash. Blood root to promote a bond between him and the magical source, and to inhibit adverse influences. Vervain to assist, and to aid in recovering stolen articles. Sweetgrass and sage to charge the space beforehand. Thistle to increase strength, with an added side benefit of deflecting lightning.

Not all of them were in bloom now, but surely he could find some in the healing wing, or perhaps the kitchens. The latter might be tricky, as he certainly had no business being near the kitchens, but he could move through the healing wing with relative impunity.

He paused, pen frozen mid-word on the page. The healing wing. There were healing stones in the healing wing, repositories of small amounts of potent magics. It would be far easier to steal several healing stones than it would be for him to try and steal any other magical well he could think up, and they would be plenty strong.

His mind whirled and his pen scratched across the page. He worked long into the night, and if he fell asleep at his desk, it wasn't the first time.


	9. Chapter 9

All of Asgard, it seemed, was spinning with the news of Loki and his conquest.

It had been one of his guards who revealed the relationship, if that's what it actually was. He was one of the younger ones, a man named Havarth, and he happened to mention in a tavern one night that his charge had broken pattern, searching birth records, health records, matriculation records, and only after _that_ did he start browsing his usual obscure magical journals.

That alone would have been enough to send the palace gossips into a speculative frenzy, but young Havarth wasn't done. "Some girl came up and talked to him," he said, voice hushed as he leaned over his pint of bitter. His listeners' eyes widened, and he knew he had them for at least two more pints. "Pretty, too—not stunning or anything, but enough there to warrant a second look. Gobs of hair, big curly mess that went everywhere—oh, and she had a harelip. I hear they've seen each other a couple a times since."

The gossip world froze for a bare moment, then spun about and fixed its eye on Sigyn Astridsdóttir, for there were no other women of noble house with a cleft lip or bushels of curly hair. The rumors spread, and few were complimentary. It was a scandal in the making.

Hogun, of all people, brought it to Thor's attention.

All five of them, Thor, the Warriors Three and Lady Sif, were making a pilgrimage to the finest arms-maker in Asgard, a Svartálfr expatriate living high on the carelessness of Asgardian warrior-jarls. His prices were steep, but his work exemplary, and as Volstagg had sat on Sif's glaive and cracked the handle, it was decided they were overdue for a visit.

They made a jovial, boisterous bunch, the echoes of their exclamations and hearty boasts echoing across the canal as they walked. The citizens of Asgard, karl and bondsman alike, parted to make way for the Crown-Prince and his companions. Not for the first time Thor took notice of his deferential treatment, and the knowledge of the many times before he hadn't set him on edge.

He had seen many things in a new light since Midgard. Since Jane, since his brother's fall. Since his brother's return. Thor wasn't truly interested in visiting the Dwarf craftsman, but he welcomed the distraction from his unsettling thoughts. He laughed when Fandral mimed swooning at a pretty face, and cheered at Sif's rendition of Skald Arvid's latest saga, but his heart was not in it.

If his friends noticed, and their gestures grew broader and their declarations more fanciful, no one made mention of it.

Master Brumi's compound was in one of the finer districts. Fittings and showings were by appointment only and there was no sign outside to indicate his business, but Thor and his companions, courtesy of being both his highest-ranking clients and the most regular, had a standing invitation. Volstagg rang the bell by the gates and burst into the courtyard beyond. The other four spilled in after, high spirits catching.

A bondsman hurried up to greet them. He bowed low. "Master Brumi is with another client at the moment, but he said you were welcome to view the new additions." He gestured toward the showroom. "He will be with you shortly."

"I am slighted!" Fandral cried, pressing a hand to his chest. "Deigning to snub us for another! Surely I shall curl up with a box of sweetmeats and sob." He cast a long look at Sif, who rolled her eyes and whacked him upside the head.

"Be still, idiot, you are scaring the slave."

Indeed, the bondsman was watching them with wide, nervous eyes. It was no small matter for a karl, no matter how fine a smith, to force his betters to wait on his convenience—and woe betide the bondsman who got in the way. The days of casual slaughter were millennia behind, but it was a simple matter to bring an upstart slave to heel.

"Peace, friend," Thor said. "We meant also to view the collection, it is of little import whether we see Brumi now or later."

The bondsman bowed and backed away, retreating a good five paces before turning and scurrying into the nearest longhouse.

"It is me, or do they get twitchier with the passage of time?"

"It is only you who grows more formidable, Volstagg."

"It speaks! Hogun, I had thought your mouth sewn shut."

This time it was Fandral who did the hitting, a solid thunk to the back of Volstagg's head.

Volstagg, red-faced, turned to Thor. "I am sorry, my friend," he said. "I meant only to lighten spirits."

Thor forced himself to relax, and unclenched his fists. "I understand, Volstagg. But I won't have my brother's position mocked or made light of."

The Warriors Three (and Sif) traded looks amongst themselves, but said nothing, and together they trooped to the showroom. For a time they were distracted by the shine of new toys. Sif cooed over a set of gauntlets etched with sprigs of winterswhite, and Hogun poked through the clubs and maces. Thor peered at a set of abdominal plates before deciding against commissioning a set. Fandral and Volstagg were mock-sparring in the corner, the former swinging a hammer much too large for him and the latter wielding a push dagger not altogether unlike a frost giant's shiv.

Their play was interrupted when the rear doors groaned open to reveal the Múspellian gloom beyond, and the stocky man between. He slammed them shut behind him. "My friends! You have come to see me once again in my old age. My heart is lightened! Allow me to return the favor by lightening your purses." Master Brumi stepped forward to greet them.

He was hardly old, perhaps of middle-age, and spry and sinewed as any of his apprentices. His hair was close-cropped to his skull, his beard short and neatly trimmed, and the tribal tattoos stood out black from his cheeks. He wore a leather apron and his sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, and both the apron and his forearms were speckled with burns.

"You overestimate the value of your goods, if you think we will simply hand over our gold," Sif declared, eyes glinting with the thrill of the bargain.

"You say that now, but don't think I didn't see you eyeing those gauntlets," Brumi said, pointing. "And put that hammer down, boy, you're not Thor."

Thor smiled at that, the expression pulling almost unfamiliarly at his cheeks. It felt good to laugh. He was not meant for solemnity. "Indeed, Arms-Maker, you see us truly. We come today to give you our coin, for Sif has broken her glaive."

"Broken it! By the halls of my fathers, I crafted it from star-steel! What did you do, let Volstagg sit on it?"

Volstagg coughed and shuffled his feet, and Sif scowled.

"You mean—you're serious? That's what happened?"

No one spoke. Brumi burst out laughing. "Ha! I should put that in the catalogue. 'Withstands the greatest threats known to Asgard! Note: keep away from drunken warrior princes.'"

Even grim Hogun cracked a small smile.

"Well, let me see this broken glaive of yours, my lady," Brumi said, wiping his eyes. "We'll see if there's not some way I can fix it for you in the most underhandedly money-grubbing way possible." He led her back into the forge, leaving the balance of the group in the showroom.

Thor sighed and twitched the leather strap on the back of a shield. In the void left by Brumi's ebulliency his mustered spirits waned. The Warriors Three traded glances again. It was Hogun who spoke up.

"It is unlike you to be the solemn one of our party," he said.

"Yes, they don't tell stories of Thor the Grim!" Fandral added, immediately silenced by a glare from Hogun.

"I am sorry, my friends," Thor said. "It has been difficult to find happiness, of late."

"We've noticed," Volstagg said, and Hogun, in a rare display of emotion, almost looked exasperated. It was hard to be certain, however.

"We are worried, Thor," he said. "What is it that burdens your heart?"

What, indeed? There were so many burdens. "I don't know where to begin."

His companions said nothing. Hogun waited.

Thor sighed. "It is Loki. I never see him; I fear he is retreating so deep into himself he will be lost to us all."

"That's not what I heard," Volstagg blurted. Fandral buried his face in a hand, and Hogun actually winced. Volstagg frowned, thinking back over his words, then turned red once more. "Oh, dear."

Thor went still. "Why, what have you heard?"

Silently, the Warriors Three elected Hogun to bear the news. "There is much gossip surrounding your brother," he said delicately. "It seems he has been following a woman."

"A _woman?_"

"Yes. Sigyn Njallsdóttir, who is called Astridsdóttir. She is a researcher on the Bifröst Project. It is said Loki has spent much time with her. That is, if the guards are to be trusted."

The air seemed suddenly too thin to breathe. "You—you think he is using this woman to further plans against Jötunheimr? Possibly Midgard?"

Hogun looked grimmer than usual. "Is is so said." He hesitated. "It... is not all that is said."

He had to go. "Give my apologies to Master Brumi," Thor said, charging for the door. "I would have words with my brother." He left in a clatter of armor. Icy flashes of light flickered in the windows, and overhead rose a peal of thunder that roared to a crescendo before fading into the distance. The ozone silence of spent lightning settled over the compound.

"We should tell someone," Hogun said.

Fandral sighed. "We'll never make it in time. Let's go."

OOO

Loki was in the Hall of Noble Dead when Thor found him. It had been entirely by accident; Loki hadn't been in his chambers, and rather than take the longer route through the hallways to the library Thor had opted for the shortcut.

His brother stood in the exact center of the floor, staring up at the skylight far above. On Midsummer the sun would shine through that skylight to where Loki stood—but Midsummer was weeks away, yet, and the shaft missed Loki by a hairsbreadth. He was almost invisible against the contrast.

The guard glanced over at Thor's approach; Thor shot him a glare. "Leave us," he said, and the guard complied.

Loki jerked at the sound of his brother's voice, head coming down from his skyward contemplation to meet Thor's gaze. His hand made an aborted grab for his belt, but whatever he sought must have been absent, for his hand came away empty. His eyes hardened.

Thor waded in. "Is it not enough that Jötunheimr is fragments of the shadow it was? Is it so little you must finish the job?"

Loki made no reply, merely watched as his brother approached. His eyes were hooded in the gloom, pits of shadow Thor's gaze could not penetrate.

"Bifröst is the only way Asgard can remain a strong figure among the Realms, Loki, you know this! Our trade is hamstrung, forced to go through the Dwarfen ways, and our merchants are crippled by tariffs. Our promises of military aid go unfulfilled. Alliances are crumbling, _I_ am unable to see the woman I love! Would you so easily throw away all our hope for petty vengeance?"

Loki crossed his arms over his chest. He shook his head all through Thor's tirade, his face arranged in masterful condescension. Thor felt his ire rising at his brother's seeming indifference.

"Is it still Jötunheimr, brother, that goads you so? Or is it Midgard? Did they slight you so deeply you must try to destroy their Realm, too? Why would you do this!" Thor ran his hand through his hair, swung his gaze past his ancestors lining the walls, silent sentinels witnessing the confrontation of their heirs. He turned back to Loki; his brother was as a statue, hard and uncompromising.

"You would force me to spell it out for you, wouldn't you. You would have me speak the rumors I hear, that you are seducing a noblewoman to do this. Have you no shame?"

Loki stiffened. His eyes flashed, he dropped his arms. The faint air of puzzlement about him vanished beneath solid realization.

"She is the child of _Astrid Leifsdóttir_, Loki! Would you so honor the memory of the greatest advisor-chieftan since Hœnir the Great by making a fool of her daughter?"

At this, Loki growled, actually growled through the vartari, and made a slicing motion with his hands. He stepped through the narrowing shaft of sunlight from above, and it illuminated his murderous expression. The stitches pulled black and ugly where they cut through his pale skin.

Thor felt the heat of his anger falter, and his heart quavered. What if he didn't have all the answers? What if he was missing something? He softened his demeanor. "Please brother, tell me it isn't true."

Once more Loki froze, and a flush of color rose to his cheeks. His fists clenched; he raised one to strike. Thor braced himself for the blow, but it never fell. He looked, and saw that Loki was staring at his open hand. It was trembling. He gave a choked sob, swallowed and nasal and full of pain and anger, and began ripping at the stitches. Thor heard the muffled give of breaking thread, and saw the bright bloom of blood on his brother's lips, before he thought to move.

"Loki, stop!" He lunged and seized Loki's wrists, pulling his hands away from his mouth. Loki's eyes were wild, brimming with tears. He snarled and ripped his arms out of Thor's grasp. His breath came ragged and his fingers twitched, but he didn't resume his mutilation; instead, he backed away, glaring at his brother, and made his escape. He turned, and by the time he reached the statue of Borr he was running. The slam of the door behind him was hollow in the vast space.


	10. Chapter 10

Next to the gardens, her private balcony was Sigyn's favorite place in Glaðsheimr. It was not large, but what space not taken up by a small chair and table was filled to overflowing with greenery. Flora from six worlds sprouted side-by-side in a disorderly jumble that nevertheless grew harmoniously. Dahlias and daisies grew beside liaanthus and silver slippers, and one whole box hanging off the balcony was devoted to chime lilies from Vanaheim, which hummed like a purring cat and chimed like tiny bells when touched. There were herbs and spices—purple allium bulbs and basil and thyme from Midgard, chaiim and asartine from Svartálfheimr, and a small sprig of rare Ljósálfar blue-bloom tucked into a pot with its white aspen host. Over all rose climbing ivy, grown from a massive urn tucked against the wall.

The balcony was her sanctuary, and her one regret in not living in the palace quarters more often was she didn't get to see it as often as she would like.

Her quiet contemplation was interrupted by her maidservant, Ane. "Pardon, m'lady, but the Crown-Prince is here to see you." She looked positively awestruck.

Sigyn felt her eyes widen. "Prince Thor? Here to see me?"

"Yes, m'lady, he asked for you by name. I showed him to the sitting room."

She rose, flustered, and closed her book. "Did he say what it was about?"

Ane gave her a bewildered look. "No, m'lady. He is the prince."

Sigyn shook her head. "Yes, yes of course. Tell him I'll be there in a moment." She looked to her plants as Ane left, breathing deeply. She wrapped her hand around the bole of her miniature aspen, taking comfort in the rasp of its papery bark against her skin. "Right, the Crown-Prince. Come now, Sigyn, you spend time with a prince every day." _Loki is different_, a voice in the back of her mind whispered. _He is not heir apparent, nor the funds behind your research_.

She was as ready as she ever would be. She stepped through the open doors to her bedchamber, and from there into the hall. She could see her father in the sitting room speaking to someone, his wide, craggy features cautious but courteous. She walked toward him, and the muscled bulk of Thor appeared around the corner. Her first impression was of height, polished armor and blue eyes, and he stared at her as curiously as she stared back him. Sigyn had a feeling she knew why he had come to see her.

"This is my daughter, Sigyn," her father introduced, and Thor took her hand and kissed it. His beard scratched.

"My lady," he said. His voice was deep. He turned to her father. "If I might have a word with your daughter in private?"

"Yes, you may," Sigyn answered.

"As she says," Njall said easily. He stepped around the chairs toward Sigyn. He took her hand and squeezed it; Sigyn clung to him for a moment. "I'll be in my quarters if you need me," he said, and she nodded. He disappeared down the hall. Sigyn turned back to her guest.

"Prince Thor." She curtseyed. "What help can I offer today?"

The prince shifted, looking uncomfortable. "My brother is missing," he said. "I thought perhaps you might know where he has hidden himself."

That was unexpected. "Surely you should be able to find him. You grew together as children, I have known him but a month."

"That is true. I have checked all the places I know of, but neither I nor the men of the guard can find him. And... Loki has changed, since we were young." He looked almost lost.

Sigyn felt a moment's pity for the man before her. "How is it he came to be missing? I thought he was guarded at all times."

Of all possible responses, she did not expect Thor to hang his head in shame. "It is my fault," he said. "I spoke rashly to him, and upset him deeply. I had sent away the guard, and when he returned Loki had already vanished."

A sinking suspicion settled through her. "What did you say?"

Thor flushed. "There are... rumors of your association," he said, stumbling over the words. "I had not heard them, and my companions only recently enlightened me. I went to Loki to confront him about them."

He had heard rumors. Sigyn could guess which rumors he had heard; her own friends had not been so reticent in keeping her informed of the court's gossip. "I see. What did Loki say?"

Thor stared at her. "He said nothing."

Sigyn frowned. "Where was his paper and pencil?"

"There was no paper and pencil."

She felt her jaw drop. "Then you went after him when he had no way to defend himself? No way to offer his side of events?"

A look of dawning horror slid over Thor's handsome face. "I hadn't thought there was another side," he said. "I was in a rage, it never occurred to me he would have his own part to say."

Sigyn felt herself settle into a calm, righteous anger. "Then you are a fool, Giant-Slayer." Thor's eyes widened, but Sigyn didn't let him finish. "There is _always_ another side to rumor. Is it any wonder your brother is angry with you, if this is how you treat him? Like he is an object rather than a person?"

At this, Thor's face darkened. "Do not belittle my love for my brother," he warned, but Sigyn had had enough.

"No, I wouldn't dream of it. You do that well enough yourself." She turned and strode down the hall. "The servants can show you out."

A hand caught her arm, and she rolled her eyes. It seemed the sons of Odin had more in common than they cared to realize. She looked at Thor. He was staring at the floor, unable to meet her gaze. "Sometimes, it is too great, the guilt I feel for his punishment," he said. "Sometimes, it is easier if he is a monster."

Sigyn tugged her arm free. "Easier for you, perhaps, Thor. But it is not easier for Loki." She left the suite.

OOO

There was a quality to solitude, a restful ease, that healed. Set a body away from the eyes and expectations of others and it could afford to devote attention to itself.

It had been a long time since Loki had been alone. Always there was someone near him, listening to him, analyzing his every move for duplicity. Not only was he never alone, but he was inspected like an insect under a lens for any defect of bearing or character. It was exhausting. He stared up at the sky, crosshatched by the twining branches of the pomegranate tree. It was hard to believe he had once longed for companionship more than he had for air. He closed his eyes and drank in his solitude.

It couldn't last. Even as the last of the tension from facing Thor faded he heard footsteps down the narrow trail, around the bend where it disappeared behind a jumble of rocks. He heard the swish of fabric with them, soft as a sigh on a summer's night, and he resigned himself to being found once more.

Only, as he raised his eyes to glare at the intruder, the familiar, curly-headed form of Lady Sigyn appeared. It had been the brushing of her skirts, orange and gold and burnt sienna, and not the drapes of his jailer, that he had heard.

She was a fair sight better than any guard, but Loki was not in a mood to hear more words. His lips stung, and his heart ached, and the pit of anger in his belly seethed.

He expected her to demand where he had been, or make some inane remark of how difficult it had been to find him. He braced himself once more for the twisting stab of another's voice, but she did not speak. Her head tilted when she saw him, and a small, crooked smile traced itself upon her lips, but she said not a word. She stepped off the path toward him, hiking up her skirts to avoid thorns and roots as she did.

She wore soft, well-worn boots in place of a lady's slippers. Loki had never noticed, before.

Mere moments had her at his side, hunkering down to sit against the trunk of the tree with no regard for the state of her dress. Their shoulders brushed. Still, she said nothing, and twitched her braid over her shoulder. She unwound the cord at the end and placed it in Loki's slack hand. His fingers reflexively closed around it. It was sueded leather, dyed a rich orange. He ran it through his fingers and watched as she dissected her braid.

He would have imagined her humming to herself in such a situation. He didn't know if she could sing, but it seemed appropriate to the image of a noblewoman letting down her hair. She seemed unaware of the intimacy of the act she was performing in his presence, and he couldn't stop watching. He wrapped the cord around his fingers.

Soon the entire cascade was free from its confines, scattering willy-nilly in the faint breeze. Loki found himself wondering how she managed it. His own hair was difficult enough to tend, and he didn't have the abundant curl Sigyn boasted. She sighed and leaned back against the tree.

Surely now she would speak. It was a weight between them, his expectation. It was as clear as the pollen motes that drifted through the air. His curiosity began to outweigh his anger and hurt, and he turned to look at her. Her eyes, soft as a doe's, stared into the distance, and the straight line of her nose was limned with gold in the afternoon light. Her breast rose easily, and her hands, tiny and supple, were loose in her lap.

Loki raised his gaze, and she was watching him. He swallowed. He gestured to the garden about them, the cliff face surging up behind them, the water running deep in the fjord beyond. Her. Him. What was she doing here?

Sigyn treated him with a speculative squint, then began searching her skirts for something. Loki shifted to the side to give her better access. She tumbled out crumpled scraps of paper and calling cards and what looked like a sheaf of her research notes, and still she was digging.

Eventually she surfaced, a slim tube in hand. She stared at it, frowning, but shrugged and reached for one of the paper scraps she had discarded. She spread it out over her knee, smoothing it as much as she was able, and uncapped the tube to reveal a fine, charcoal pencil. She wrote something out, then gave it to him.

Loki took it, not quite comprehending. He stared at Sigyn; she raised an eyebrow and pointed at the paper. He ducked his head to read it.

_I heard a rumor you might need some company_.

Something clenched in Loki's chest, and he cleared his throat. He took the proffered pencil.

_You should be careful about listening to rumors. Sometimes they're wildly inaccurate._

_Yes, but this one was straight from the source._

_?_

_Thor._

Loki stiffened and started to pull away, but Sigyn's hand on his knee kept him seated. When she was certain he wouldn't move, she picked up the pencil.

_Your brother can be an immense fool, but he means well_.

_You think so, do you?_

The conversation stalled as they ran out of paper. Sigyn reached for her sheaf of notes, and began writing on the cover.

_Yes, and you know it, too. The first thing he did when he couldn't find you himself was come to me, and __that__ on hearsay alone._

Loki's hand clenched against his thigh, and he forced the fingers to straighten. _He was courteous to you?_

Sigyn smiled. _He was positively remorseful_. Loki snorted; Sigyn poked him in the side. _Don't be like that. _

_I shall be however I want._

_Did you transform into a petulant three-year-old when I wasn't looking?_ Loki scowled, and tugged on a lock of her hair. Sigyn yelped, and retaliated by kicking his ankle. That simply wouldn't do, and Loki made his point by elbowing her ribs. Not to be outdone, Sigyn flung a clod of dirt at his head. He dodged it easily, and the look of mock outrage on her face brought a smile to his lips.

His stitched, torn lips. He hissed and ducked his head, bringing a hand to his mouth. He looked at his fingers; they came away red.

Gentle hands turned his head around, and tilted his face into the sunlight. He closed his eyes.

"You should go to the healers," Sigyn murmured. Her thumbs stroked his cheekbones.

Loki shook his head, dislodging her hands. He took up the pencil. _Not yet._

Sigyn gave him a long look, but nodded.

He looked down at the pencil in his hands, twirling it between his fingers. It was narrower than any pencil he had ever seen before, and the charcoal core was soft almost to the point of uselessness. _Where did you get this?_

_It's a cosmetic pencil. To outline the eyes._ Her cheeks were red.

Loki looked between her and the pencil. _Won't you need it?_

_Not really. Normally I use kohl._ _We're lucky, I ran out yesterday and have been using that until I could get more._

There didn't seem to be anything to say to that. He let the conversation lag, and sat back to watch Sigyn.

Talking like this... he was forced to watch her. When she spoke he could focus on what she said, ignore what she did. Without her voice, however, that barrier was no longer there, and Loki had to take his cues from her body language. His eyes traced the line of her leg through her skirts. It was uncomfortably intimate.

Sigyn poked him, and he focused. She stood in a shower of defaced scraps of paper and, as he watched, plucked a pomegranate from the laden branches above. She plopped down beside him and pulled a pocketknife from her skirts. She decapitated the fruit, tossing the stem into the bushes, and sliced down the rind before splitting it apart. Seeds spilled from the sides, and Loki peered into the bloody pulp within. She handed it to him and took up the pencil.

_Have you ever eaten a pomegranate before?_ Loki shook his head, picking out one of the seeds. It seemed to glow from within. _You might be able to fit the pips between your stitches._ She glanced at him. _You said you missed the taste of food._

Loki bowed his head again, struck by a pain far deeper than that in his lips. He did as she bid and nudged the seed between the gaps in the vartari. It felt clumsy, and it stung where it tugged torn flesh, and he turned his face away, embarrassed. It fit through, however, and the sensation of sinking his teeth into something tangible was almost as intoxicating as the tart bite of the juice against his tongue. He shivered.

Sigyn said nothing for the rest of the afternoon, merely shared his company. They ate pomegranates until their fingers were stained, and Loki's lips were red from something other than blood.

OOO

Sigyn sat before her mirror and touched her cheek. It felt warm, even now.

When the time had come for them to leave their quiet island, Loki had stood and helped her to her feet. His hands had been cool against hers, dry and lightly callused. She looked up at him. His face was cast in planes of light and shadow by the fading afternoon light, and at once he seemed both harsh and regal, a warrior prince in his own right, savage or cultured as he saw fit. His eyes, though, held only gentleness, and an uncertainty Sigyn had never seen before. Their fingers twined, and almost as though gravity held sway between them they drew close.

He could not kiss her, she had realized. It was a quiet revelation, its sting dulled by the multitude of precedent. He would kiss her, and she would have him, but his lips were useless to them both. Even so, his hand rose to cup her cheek, and his eyes, dark in the burgeoning twilight, fluttered closed as he leaned in.

He had pressed his cheek against hers. Sigyn had smelled the clean scent of his skin, the crisp tang of the oils he used to slick back his hair, and the faint, sweet smell of sweat. His cheek was was warm against hers, and his stubble prickled at her skin. She had pressed closer to him then, nuzzling into his neck; his breath had stuttered, and she savored the memory of his chest hitching against hers.

He pulled back to trail the tip of his nose along her cheek, and rested his forehead against hers. She opened her eyes, saw him watching her. She reached up and kissed his nose before settling back into his arms. He had sighed, breath soft against her lips, and they stood there, embracing as lovers, sharing touches and sighs and silent promises instead of kisses.

Sigyn stared at her reflection. She had thought that her heart might swell and break from... not joy, or mere happiness, but something dark and beautiful and powerful, and rare beyond measure. She recalled Loki's hands against her face, the way they had trembled, and she thought perhaps he might feel the same.

He had offered to braid her hair before they left. His hands had been swift and sure, and she wondered where he had gained the skill.

They parted at the library promenade, where Loki's guards had reclaimed him with scowls and suspicious glances. They asked her where he had been; she answered truthfully: with her. She offered no more, and it was not their place to ask. She exchanged a lingering look with Loki before he went to his rooms. His eyes had been dark and unreadable.

It wasn't until Sigyn began to unwind her braid for the night, and a bright orange sprig fell to the floor, that she noticed the flowers. She craned her neck in the mirror. A tidy row of butterfly weed, marching all the way up to the crown of her head, had been woven into her hair.


	11. Chapter 11

Sigyn squinted at the Bifröst model before her, examining how the magical lines interacted with the physical ones. Once again, there was a discrepancy, and it was maddening. What was she missing?

Her leave had ended four days ago, and she was once more ensconced in the workshop set aside for the Bifröst Project consultants. The model was in the center of the warehouse, gleaming where it wasn't smudged with handprints and dust, and inside, tucked out of sight beneath the keyhole in its specially-designed harness, glowed the tesseract.

The entire setup was visually stunning, but a structural mess, and Sigyn glared at it. Every part of it pulled inward toward a central source, but there was no central source included in the designs to pull to. It was as though the designers had considered it so blindingly obvious it hadn't needed to be said, and Sigyn was tearing her hear out in frustration and impotent wrath.

Arnkatla came up beside her. "We should leave it for a time," she said. "We've been staring at the damned thing so long I'm certain I'll be dreaming about it, tonight."

"I already do," Sigyn said ruefully, and rubbed her eyes.

Her friend snorted. "And here I thought those were reserved for a certain prince."

Sigyn's heart leapt, and she scowled at her silliness. "Loki and I are good friends," she said, and it wasn't a lie. She pulled out the pen she had tucked in her hair and made a note to re-calibrate the fore plate before the next round of testing.

"Yes, and all good friends moon after each other like lovelorn calves."

"I do not—! I don't moon," Sigyn exclaimed, turning to face her friend. She expected to see the familiar, teasing light in Arnkatla's eye, but she was solemn.

"And you don't give your mother's locket to good friends," she said. "I worry for you, Sigyn. He—Loki, he's the Traitor-Prince. He's a _murderer_, and if the rumors are true, a kinslayer. How can you feel safe with him?"

Sigyn sighed. How could she explain it? Explain that, by showing trust in Loki, he, in turn, had opened to her? That the tender glimpses she saw of him when he wasn't on his guard were becoming more precious to her than her own plants? He was seen as an unlovable thing by so many, and yet Sigyn had found that, in loving him, he became something more worthy of love. He blossomed under her attention. He soaked it up, and rather than holding it over her like she would have expected he received it with awe.

He was still arrogant and proud and vain, and sometimes she had to step very carefully indeed, but she felt replete when she was with him, as though her every want had been fulfilled. She couldn't explain it.

Arnkatla's gaze softened. "I think I see," she said. "I don't understand, but I see." She took Sigyn's hand. "If he ever hurts you, I will eviscerate him. I'm giving fair warning."

Sigyn huffed a laugh and set aside her notes. "Your concern is touching, truly."

"It should be." That was the end of conversation for a time, as Arnkatla took Sigyn's arm and steered her from the main floor. They strolled through the hallways, turning at random, before finding their way out onto the balcony walk.

"So your father has returned to the country," Arnkatla said after a time. "But you have not moved back into the townhouse."

"No," Sigyn said, cursing her fair skin that showed every blush. "I felt it necessary to remain at Astriðholmr a while longer. How is the Björnlaug theory holding up, by the way? I meant to ask you last week, but you were busy, and I was—that is, I—"

"You were otherwise indisposed," Arnkatla said, grinning evilly. "Yes, I gathered." She sobered. "Björnlaug was a moron, his theory is all over the place. I've been spending more time disproving it than supporting it. Which is good, but not what my funding was for, and that is not so good. Proof why men shouldn't try their hands at magic, they bungle it up."

Sigyn made a noncommittal noise. "Loki taught me a great deal about illusion, actually. It helped with the model."

Arnkatla's eyes widened. "I'd noticed the improvements, I thought the leave had done you good. Loki did that?"

"No, I did that. But he showed me better ways to do it. He's not called the greatest illusionmaster in Asgard for nothing."

Her friend let out a low whistle. "I'll say. If that's what his magic looks like, no wonder you're attracted to him."

Sigyn slapped her arm. "That's not why." Arnkatla threw her a skeptical look. "That's not _only_ why."

"Then... Why? I honestly can't see much to recommend him. If we talk of the princes Thor's far more beautiful. Loki... he's all pointy and pale, and ugh, those stitches..."

"You should look below the surface, Arnkatla. Loki is more than the vartari, and more than his crimes." They came to rest at a corner overlooking the collegium square. Sigyn broke away to rest her elbows on the balustrade. Arnkatla leaned beside her, and Sigyn had to force back the plume of déjà vu.

"Yes, well, you still have pointy and pale."

Sigyn blushed. "Your internal biases are coloring your objective analysis."

Arnkatla smirked, and poked Sigyn's arm. "As are yours. And you always get technical when you're nervous." She sighed and tossed her head. "Admit it, you like pasty beanpoles."

Sigyn drew herself up, straightening her skirts. "He has very nice cheekbones," she said. "And his hands are lovely."

"So prim!" her friend laughed. "Would you use such dry language to describe your precious cuttings?"

Sigyn threw up her hands. "Yes, I think he is handsome! There, I have admitted it! Are you content?"

"Never," Arnkatla declared. "It is always my goal to get to the very heart of anything that crosses my path."

"And that is why you are a particle investigator," Sigyn snorted. "You divide and magnify until you can divide and magnify no further, and then you divide some more."

"Exactly," Arnkatla said, baring her teeth in a feral grin. "Now tell me, why is your specimen of fine, male bone structure coming to see you at this hour of the day?"

"What!" Sigyn exclaimed, and turned, searching the square below for Loki's familiar, lithe frame. It wasn't hard to find; no other passerby had an armed guard in tow. Sigyn shaded her eyes from the glare of the sun and leaned out to look. "He's early," she said, unable to contain her smile. She looked to Arnkatla.

She shooed her off. "Go," she said. "I assume he's taking you to the faire? As I thought. Then go, I've got control enough over the doings here."

Sigyn bounced up and kissed Arnkatla's cheek, then scurried down the balcony to the nearest stairwell. "I'll help re-calibrate that plate tomorrow," she called back to Arnkatla's wave, and slipped in the door.

She was going to meet her prince.

OOO

Midsummer was approaching, and with it came the slew of seasonal festivals and faires that dotted the countryside. The City herself had set up a party of special magnificence in the civic plaza before Glaðsheimr, and every merchant with funds had set up a booth—so many, in fact, that the exhibits and displays overflowed the plaza and spilled down the Causeway and side streets for hundreds of paces in every direction. Asgardians were always glad of an opportunity to boast to one another, even in so odd a form as that of a market faire.

It was a week after the "Incident," as they had come to call the fiasco with Thor and the rumors, and Loki and Sigyn were taking advantage of the occasion by perusing the booths, carefully ignoring the curious looks and glares aimed in their direction. Loki's guard was an ever-present shadow behind.

Whatever their political leanings, the merchants fell over themselves to spread their finest wares before the prince. In his youth, Loki had never missed a festival day, and before his fall he had been known as a lavish patron of the arts. Any contract with him was an endorsement of the highest caliber. The great likelihood of him buying some pretty bauble for his pretty companion—that, too, drew their hopes.

"Oh, look!" Sigyn said, pointing out a clock-wright's display. "This is the newest kind of clock available, they don't tell the time so much as the whereabouts of the owners. They're dear to come by, though, the enchantments are quite fussy."

Loki leaned in for a closer look. There were more than the usual number of hands, and each was etched with a name. One was squarely at 'work', another was 'home', a third pointed to 'traveling'. The clock-wright hovered between pride and worry for his goods. "My daughter was the magician who came up with the spells," he said, pudgy face wavering toward pride. "I'm the only clock-maker in Asgard who sells them commercially."

Sigyn's brows rose. "Who is your daughter?"

"Hilde Havarthsdóttir," the merchant said. "She's member of the Collegium of Mechanical Adaptation."

"Yes! I don't know her, but I've read her papers. She's absolute genius when it comes to braiding magic with inert materials. I think she might be one of the Bifröst researchers, is that correct?"

"Indeed she is, m'lady, she's quite proud of the honor..."

Loki's attention wandered from the conversation, catching instead on a bolt of russet silk prominently displayed on the booth opposite. It was a glorious blend of red, orange and brown, and it suited Sigyn's love of warm, earthy colors. He left Sigyn to her clocks and colleagues and wandered over.

The merchant was a narrow woman, stooped and withered with age, and she watched Loki's approach with a knowing look in her eye. "Thinking to curry her favor, are you?" she said, her voice strong despite her wizened appearance.

Loki cast her a careful glance.

"Don't look at me like that, boy. I don't care if you're prince or page, I've lived more years than I reckon the Allfather has himself and I can tell what you're thinking clear as I see that girl you can't stop staring at."

He raised an eyebrow.

The merchant snorted, shaking her head. "You're sick in love, poor fool, and don't even know it. Well, Prince, you may have this bolt of silk for your lady, provided you part with no less than thirty gold."

Loki felt his heart hiccup in his chest, and he flushed. Sick in love. What did she know about anything? He scowled at the merchant, ignoring her opening offer, and turned back to Sigyn. She was still chattering with the clock-wright. Loki put a hand to her back and nudged her onward, nodding to the clock-smith as he pulled her away. She went easily enough, casting him a curious glance even as she made her farewells. Loki didn't bother trying to explain, eager to leave the old woman and her blasted bolt of silk as far behind as possible.

"What was that about?" Sigyn asked, when they were a good two rows of stalls away. Loki shook his head, waving it aside, but he knew from the way Sigyn's eyes narrowed she wouldn't give this one up. He looked heavenward, seeking the Ancients' own patience, and something in the air caught his eye. He froze.

"Loki?" The sounds around him faded, and his gaze fixed on the tiny shape breaking the atmospheric barrier of Asgard. He stared, and as he watched it resolved into a Chitauri battle skiff, settling down toward the plaza.

He felt his face go white.

"Loki, what is it? Are you alright?"

It was too soon, they shouldn't have mobilized that fast. They couldn't have known he would be extradited back to Asgard, they should have spent far more time looking for him. Loki felt his heart begin to race. He turned to Sigyn and snatched up his notebook. _I have to go_.

Sigyn looked up to him, then to the skiff in the sky. "Who are they, Loki?" She asked, voice soft, and Loki shook his head. He turned to race through the teeming plaza towards Glaðsheimr. This was an audience he could not miss.


	12. Chapter 12

The guards wouldn't let him into the audience chamber. The Chitauri held a delicate political position, and Odin had seen them without hesitation—and he had ordered neither of his sons be present. Thor stood solidly before the doors, brow furrowed. Loki paced.

It should have eased the tension in him, knowing his brother was slighted as well. It should have calmed his frantic heartbeat and settled his breath, but Loki was too far in his own mind to be calmed. If he turned his head too quickly he saw the Other's hand coming for him out of the corner of his eye. If he blinked too long the devastation "his" army had wrought on the Midgardian city flashed out against the blank canvas of his eyelids, horrible and not what he had wanted, but inescapable just the same. If he didn't look closely at a guard before he swung past he saw Thanos, and jerked to the side before he could stop himself. He was two heartbeats away from ripping a halberd from the guards' hands and bursting inside to skewer the emissary, hospitality be damned.

"Why would Father not let us enter?" Thor said, fingers straying to the haft of Mjölnir.

Loki snorted. _Because, _dear_ brother, we are neither of us friend to the Chitauri._

"And what business could _they_ possibly have with _us_?"

Loki halted mid-step and stared at his brother. Thor caught the cessation of movement and looked over, and saw Loki's incredulous expression. _They want my head on a pike, you great fool, and if Odin will not give it to them then they will take it from my shoulders themselves._

Thor at least had the grace to look abashed. He looked away, and Loki resumed pacing. It was endless minutes before the doors cracked open with a groan, revealing the Chitauri emissary.

Loki released a breath. It wasn't the Other, merely a drone, its skeletal, ursine face locked in its biotech caul. It saw Loki and it hissed, taking a step forward, and Thor inserted himself between them even as Loki's guard shifted his halberd to the ready.

It hissed again at the display. "You will not always have strong allies about you, Betrayer," it snarled. "They will sleep, or you will betray them, and then the Chitauri will find you and we will peel the flesh from your bones for what you have done."

Loki couldn't have spoken even had he wanted to. His fingers clenched tight around the dagger suddenly in his hand.

"And then _I_ will hunt the Chitauri down and kill the rest of them for it," Thor rumbled, his voice resonating in Loki's chest like a peal of thunder.

The emissary's hand went to the energy pistol in its bandolier. It didn't draw, not all the way, but held ready. Loki saw Thor's shoulders stiffen, saw his hand reach toward Mjölnir, and Loki grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. Thor went, surprised, and Loki stepped toward the drone. Its piggy eyes narrowed at his approach.

Slowly, as though in a dream, Loki raised the dagger. He could feel the indrawn breath of those around him as they caught sight of it. He held it for a bare moment, poised in uncertainty, and he almost sent it spinning into the drone's eye socket—but sense prevailed, and he opened his fingers to let it drop to the floor. It rang against the flags like a chime calling the hour.

The drone hissed a third time at the insult. For an enemy to disarm himself before his ready foe implied he was not worth the effort to fight. Loki met the drone's burning gaze. He did not need words, not for this. Custom dictated the drone disarm itself, as well; Loki waited to see if it would.

It did, shoving the pistol back into its holster. It straightened and stared at Loki. "Know this, Betrayer. I go to the Other, and it will be pleased to know you live, for you are a coward and a traitor and death is too kind for you. Know that I will tell it of your disgrace among your own people, that they will not even let you speak for fear you will lie. Know that we seek redress for your crimes against us, and that in the end, you will be ours. You will embrace death like a lover before we kill you."

_I already love another_, Loki thought viciously. _Death cannot supplant her_.

But the drone could not hear, and it turned and spun on its heel to march out.

Behind, Loki swayed, his shell of anger cracking like untempered steel. Thor put out a hand to steady him and Loki shrugged it off. He was neither weak nor broken; he did not need Thor's help.

A guard emerged from the audience chamber. He addressed the princes. "The Allfather will see you now."

Both turned, surprised, and followed the guard into the chamber. Odin was waiting, standing before the dais that bore up his seat. He wore neither his full armor nor his formal robes, and that alone showed the gravity he lent to the emissary's arrival, that he had not stopped to change. The doors behind them groaned shut.

"I have accepted the Chitauri's petition to treat for a possible alliance," he said. "They will arrive in three days."

Loki's heart stopped, and he stumbled to a halt.

"Father, what is this?" Thor demanded. "They are killers, without honor and who fight for the pleasure of destruction. What good will come of treating with them?"

Odin glanced to him, Loki saw it. "We know nothing of the Chitauri, where they know much of us. This is an opportunity to balance the scales."

"No, Father," Thor said, squaring his shoulders and stepping back to stand alongside Loki. "This is madness. The Chitauri have no concern for life, their emissary admitted in the hall he sought Loki's death. They would destroy us as they attempted to destroy Midgard, as they would raze all the Nine Realms back to the dust that formed them."

Odin met Loki's gaze. "Can we claim ourselves unstained by those same accusations?" His voice was soft, his eye sad.

Loki staggered as though struck, his breath gone. He would have spoken, had been able, but he had no voice, here. He never had. Beside him, Thor bowed his head, unable to defend his nation without condemning his brother.

The Allfather went on. "We are in a weak position. I trust the Chitauri as I trust a fox in the hen house—very little, and with nothing I value; nevertheless, we cannot reject out of hand any possible alliances. I do not anticipate these talks will end fruitfully. Know that if they ask for you, Loki, I will deny them. You are still under my protection as a citizen of Asgard, regardless of your past deeds."

"And as your son?" Thor asked, startling Loki. "Is he still under your protection as a son is under his father's?"

"Yes." The word was small, but it resonated through the audience chamber.

Loki felt himself waver for a moment, but he beat it back, scowling. It was too little, too late. Honeyed words to catch a fly, and Loki was no fool. He was still as much a trophy as the Casket, and Odin sought only to protect his investment—though surely Loki's use as a Jötunn puppet-king was long-since spent.

"Any information you can give me on our guests would be welcome." Thor nodded, accepting his father's answer, and Loki felt a twinge of something like warmth toward him for his support, ham-fisted though it had been. Loki did not answer Odin's request, however. He had nothing to say to this man who had sewed his mouth shut. The Allfather had silenced Loki; then let Loki be silent.

He turned and walked out of the chamber.

OOO

Three days later, the Chitauri envoy descended on the City. They came from Bifröst, and made their way up the Causeway with full military pomp. No less than two leviathans flanked the state barge, and a full complement of skiffs followed. Their rough, utilitarian armor and jagged edges clashed with the refined glitter of Asgard. The message they sent was clear: we are not weak. Do not presume to underestimate us.

The Allfather, flanked by the goðar and both his sons, awaited them. The Royal Guards and the Einherjar were arrayed in full dress armor, their polearms sharp and gleaming and their armor reinforced with fresh spells the night before. Ægirjar longships lined the Causeway, and more were tucked into the fjords and hidden coves as reserve. The reply was clear: we do not fear you. We have might of our own.

The leader of the Chitauri, one its people called the Other, stepped off the barge to greet Odin. The Allfather's single eye glinted steel-blue in the mid-morning light. The Other's expression was unreadable, for all of its face but its mouth was shrouded by a hood.

"Welcome to Asgard, Ambassador," the Allfather said, voice strong where it echoed from the buildings. It showed none of his great age.

"King Odin," the Other replied, and its voice was deep as the darkness of the void. "It is past time our peoples met. Two races of mighty warriors; what an alliance we should make!" None but those closest noticed how its hood shifted toward Loki, white-faced and rigid where he stood beside his father, and even his guards' grips on their spears were white-knuckled.

"We are far from allies, yet, Other of the Chitauri," Odin replied. "There is much to discuss before such a noble ideal can be attained. In the meantime, my eldest will see to your quartering." Thor stepped forward, a shadow of his father's steely calm in his mien, and began directing the berthing of the leviathans.

Together, the leaders of two peoples walked into Glaðsheimr, followed by their retinues. The Traitor-Prince lagged behind, casting a tight grimace to the skiffs lining the plaza. His head bowed, his face drawing in on itself in shuttered emotion, he followed the procession in. His fingers twitched at his side, and his fists opened and closed impotently as he walked.

Tension settled thick upon Asgard, uncertainty and fear stealing through her in a way it hadn't since the Bifröst had shattered.

OOO

Once more, Loki sat at his desk into the wee hours. Once more he sought peace in the pages of his texts, in the promise of his spell. Three healing stones sat before him, beckoning him with their promise of power. Herbs, gathered from the Reserve after Thor had sent him running like a dog with its tail between its legs, sat drying before his bedchamber fire, the servants told in no uncertain terms they would lose their thumbs if they touched anything.

All that was left was the finishing touches, the grace notes, the little details that would shift the balance of the spell to one side or the other. It always paid to attend to the details. He reached up and touched the locket lying against his throat, bared by the sloppy gape of his open collar.

They had increased his guard. Four, now, sat outside his doors, and two shadowed his every step. Not that he went anywhere aside from the negotiating table, where he was stared at and measured until such time as the haggling began in earnest. He wondered how much the Allfather would demand for his release.

He longed for the shroud of his armor. He was vulnerable and exposed and it tore at him, but he was shamed with cowardice and treason, and he would bear no armor until such dishonor was removed from his name.

He yearned for the protection of his magic. He tested the binding constantly now, and the internal twisting had become so familiar he wasn't sure if he could separate it, anymore, from the roil of nausea in the pit of his stomach. He saw Chitauri faces wherever he looked, and sometimes they weren't in his imagination. He grasped for a life-line that wasn't there.

The gossip mill had roared back to life, as well. Everywhere he went whispers followed, renewed from where they had fallen in the quiet weeks since his execution and the scandal of his association with Sigyn. Loki thought bitterly at the irony of it all. Finally he had received recognition for his own deeds, independent of those of his family, and now that he had it he sought only to be rid of it.

He thrust those thoughts aside, pushed away every distraction to his finishing the spell. He had let his endeavors lag; he was behind, and was now forced to make up for lost time. He had to forget the rumors, forget that the Chitauri and their lord were nipping his heels. He had to forget Sigyn and hold firm to his conviction.

_You lack conviction._ The voice of the mortal he had slain echoed in the silent room. _No,_ Loki answered the shade. _You're wrong. I have much conviction. It is borne of fear._ His hand trembled around his pen, and he clenched his fingers, determined to stay on task, but the memories surged and crashed over him.

He pushed away from the desk and overbalanced, and he went sprawling to the floor.

_You will seek Death by the time we are done, little god._

He whimpered and crawled toward the corner, the one protected by the couch and which afforded a view of the entire room.

_His brother's scowl, dark as the thunderstorm beyond, and the gut-wrenching pull of free-fall as Thor flung them from the craft._

He put his back to the wall, curled around himself and trembled. He burned in shame.

_Sentiment. Sentiment. Sentiment._

The moon had sunk low on the horizon before he was able to pry himself from the corner. He pulled himself back to his desk, righted his chair and took up his pen. The nib scratched against the page, and the candles burned low.

It was almost done.


	13. Chapter 13

Sigyn watched Loki from a distance, and watched as he started crumbling away under the stress. She stood among the honored few lining the walls around the negotiating table, invited by the Crown-Prince himself to observe the negotiations, and watched the dark shadows under his eyes deepen, and how, for the first time in almost two months, weight began to shed from Loki's already narrow frame.

Her heart broke, and she longed to go to him, but he refused all visitors, including her. The guards at his door had looked at her with pity, those who hadn't stared at her in confusion and disgust.

The only interaction she had had with him in the two days since the Chitauri had arrived had been to pass him a pomegranate when she saw him in the hall. He had taken it, and his eyes when they had alit on hers had been dark with hidden horrors so near to the surface Sigyn could almost see them. She had wanted to take him to their garden and wipe away the crease in his brow, to babble about her research and her plants until he yielded to exhaustion and fell asleep.

He had held the pomegranate all through the session, stroking it with trembling fingers.

Thor noticed his brother's ill-health, as well. Sigyn watched the Crown-Prince shift ever closer to his disgraced brother as the days went by and Odin Allfather and the Other wound through the preliminaries. She saw Loki draw away from him to stand alone, and Sigyn wanted to go up and beat his head against the wall for his stubbornness.

As for the Allfather, he seemed to take no notice of his sons other than to keep them, in one form or another, from upsetting the delicate truce he had established. He sat opposite the Other at the table and exchanged pleasantries that were anything but. They danced around each other, testing for gaps in the other's guard, searching for scraps of information, and when none were forthcoming they let slip hints in hopes of receiving something in return.

Sigyn ignored the politics of it. The Allfather had that well in hand. His son, however, was diminishing.

She appealed to Frigga, begging the Queen to do something, to intercede, to perhaps withdraw Loki from the debates.

The Queen had gazed down on her, a terrible, sad knowledge in her gentle eyes, and said Loki would fare far worse if left to his own devices. She had been kind but firm, denying Sigyn's suit. In recompense, she said Loki would be able to meet her in the Hall of Noble Dead that evening.

Bemused, Sigyn had thanked her and left. She stood through another endless round of negotiation and watched Loki's glare grow more hopeless with every passing volley.

She was waiting in the Hall that night when Loki arrived. He was a slender wraith against the gloom, face white and almost glowing in the moonlight that reflected from the polished stone. He stopped beneath the oculus, and in the cold illumination Sigyn saw in his eyes something that might have been hope, had it not been for the burning despair.

She stepped out to him, and he whirled into a crouch, hand going to the knives he wore tucked under the leather bands on his arms. Sigyn stilled, letting him see her, see that she was not a Chitauri assassin, before advancing.

He sighed shakily, and Sigyn pressed her palm to his chest, over her locket, over his heart. It was racing. His hands came up to her arms, and his grip was tight, but not cruel. He held her there, not letting her close the distance, and Sigyn's heart wept with the knowledge he feared to let her near. Gently she broke his grip and slid close, and wrapped her arms around his torso. He stiffened and a small, hurt sound found its way from his lips, but Sigyn didn't let go.

They stood like that, illuminated in moonlight, for what seemed eons—and then he bent, and wrapped his arms around her. He buried his face in her neck, his breath blew hot against her skin, and his arms tightened almost to the point of pain—but this was the first comfort he had accepted from another in almost five days, and Sigyn wasn't letting go. She cradled him in her arms, seeking to extinguish the tremble in his by the steadiness of her presence.

"Don't go where I cannot follow, Loki," she whispered. "I would stand by your side to the ends of the earth, to where the seas plunge to the heavens below, and I would follow you beyond. Do not turn me from you."

He let loose a small sob and his arms tightened, then loosened, and he stood upright. His eyes, when she saw them, were hard in the moonlight, and they were the color of blood. His pale skin bled into the blue of deep, cracking ice. He removed her hands from his arms, brushing them aside with careless swipes, and Sigyn cradled her hands to her chest from the burning cold of his touch. She fell back in shock.

It was Loki who advanced this time, a dark smirk playing about his eyes and pulling at his stitches, contorting his mouth into a sickly wound. He plucked one of the knives from its sheath; Sigyn watched, open-mouthed, as it crusted over in a layer of ice.

She fell back once more, and Loki followed. He seized Sigyn's throat, his grip crushing, though not freezing as it had been before. He dragged her close until his face loomed in her vision, his red eyes boring into hers. She choked, straining for air against his fist.

Loki brought the dagger up and placed it under her right eye. She felt the ice melt against her skin, a lone drop of water sliding down her cheek like a tear.

"Loki, w-what are you doing," she gurgled, staring into his strange, lined face.

Something shifted in his gaze at her words, and the vice of his fingers released and he let her go. She felt to the floor, bruising her palms, and sucked in gulps of the finest-tasting air she had ever known, coughing against the burn. She heard a shout, and looking up, saw one of Loki's guards wrestling him to the ground. Already the blue was fading from his skin. The other guard came to her, offering a hand. She took it, and he helped her to her feet.

"Stop," she rasped. "Let him up."

All three men looked at her, disbelieving. "M'lady? Are you sure?"

She nodded. She swallowed. "Yes. He was trying to protect me."

The guard beside her shifted. "M'lady... he was trying to kill you."

Sigyn glared at him. "I did not say it was a graceful attempt. Let him up."

Looking to each other, they shrugged. The guard pinning Loki released him, shoving him away as he stood. Loki followed, his eyes downcast, shoulders slumped.

Sigyn walked up to him and raised his chin, forcing him to look at her. His eyes were those dark wells of horror once more. She stared at him, then released him. She stepped back, and Loki's gaze followed her. She left the Hall, and Loki, behind.

She did not attend the negotiations the next day.


	14. Chapter 14

Odin called a recess that afternoon to allow both parties to collect their thoughts and plan their strategies. The Chitauri had decamped to their leviathans rather than accept Odin's offer of hospitality, and Thor reminded himself they were not of Asgard, and thus had different customs.

The insult stung no less.

He was spending the afternoon at the training yards, stretching muscles cramped from endless sitting, easing his mind from its hyper-alert state with the simple action of the body. He had noticed his brother's unusual dishevelment that morning, and had further noticed Sigyn's absence from the witnesses. He wondered what had happened between them.

He was sprinkling water on the hard-packed earth of the sparring circle when he heard the clatter of approaching armor. He looked up, and saw Loki barreling toward him, trailed by his guards. Thor dropped the bucket, sloshing water over his boots, and he reached for Mjölnir. He hefted his hammer, feeling its weight in his hand, but he didn't raise it.

Loki paused long enough only to seize a spear from the arms rack before launching himself at his brother. His thrust went wild; his jump was off. Thor deflected the shaft easily. The guards stepped forward from where they had paused at the edge of the courtyard, but Thor waved them back.

He had seen his brother's face, the murderous pain creased into it, and knew this was something he could help. A thousand questions were on the tip of his tongue, but he held them back; his brother would speak when his anger was worn down, and no sooner.

Loki fought like a madman, paying no heed to himself in his attempts to broach Thor's guard. He rebounded from another deflected thrust with his usual sinuous grace, crouching down only to spiral out from his core. His spear swung in a vicious arc.

Thor ducked it, began to spin Mjölnir. He didn't have his brother's speed or his fluid unpredictability, but he had power and size, and unlike Loki he was wearing his armor. He traced a lazy figure-eight in the air before him, waiting.

Loki didn't disappoint. He planted the butt of the spear, disarming himself that he might vault over Thor's head and his spinning guard. When he landed he swept out a leg for Thor's feet.

It was an old trick. Thor hopped over Loki's leg, and it may have looked undignified, but it kept him his feet. He was off-balance for a bare moment, however, and Loki jumped up with a kick to his chest. Thor went down, Mjölnir flying from his hand. Loki leapt after, and had Thor not rolled away Loki's foot would have obliterated his face. He slammed an elbow into Loki's back as he scrambled up.

His brother tumbled forward, but he caught himself in a handspring and pushed back to his feet. They stood across the circle from each other. Thor waited. This was Loki's fight; let Loki decide when it was over.

Loki paid no mind to Thor's wariness. In the space of a blink he had aimed a flying punch to Thor's head, putting all his weight behind the blow. Thor stepped into his guard and grabbed his arm. He threw him past using Loki's own momentum. Rather than go sprawling like any other self-respecting warrior, however, Loki turned it into a dive and somersaulted back to his feet. Thor turned and waded in, fists swinging.

Loki, confound him, dodged and wove about Thor's punches like they were moving at half speed, casting glancing blows of his own to Thor's less-armored sides. Thor thought wistfully back to the abdominal plates he had seen in Master Brumi's workshop.

Thor let it carry on until Loki's fury began to wane into exhaustion. It took less time than he would have thought. Gradually, Loki left behind the more acrobatic parts of his repertoire, cleaving more and more to simpler strikes and the sneaking, angled attacks he loved so much. When he judged the time right, Thor bulled straight through Loki's defenses, seized the front of his tunic, and headbutted him.

Loki reared back and, arms windmilling, tumbled to the ground. Thor stood back for a moment, not yet certain his brother was done, but when he didn't rise again he hurried forward. He had thought he had aimed well, but it was entirely possible to strike too hard, especially with a blow to the nose. He knelt over his brother's prostrate form.

Loki was staring at the sky, and Thor's heart stopped at the naked pain on his face. "Brother, where are you hurt?" His hands hovered over his chest, shaking with fear.

He watched, completely shocked, as Loki's face crumpled inward and a single tear slipped down his cheek, followed by another. He looked up to the guards, still hovering at the edge of the ring, eyes wide, and waved them away. They nodded and backed out, disappearing around the corner. Thor turned back to his brother.

Loki had managed to push himself upright into a sitting position, but when he tried to regain his feet he wobbled. Thor grabbed his elbow, easing him back down to the ground. "Easy," he said. "Your head must still be spinning."

Loki shot him a glare, but it was watery and unfocused. He turned away from his brother, obviously resigned to his presence, and sank his head into his hands. Silent sobs rocked his body. Thor looked away, wanting to give Loki his privacy, but unwilling to leave him alone. He sat like that for a time, staring at the far wall and listening to the hitched, damp breathing of his brother at his side. He had never felt as useless, or as confused.

Eventually Loki's breathing evened out, and Thor risked a glance. Loki was staring at the dirt, face bleak and eyes red. Thor looked, and an idea came to him, so clear it was as though the Ancients had put it there themselves. He hoisted himself to his feet and walked over to the discarded water bucket. He picked it up, and carrying it back to his brother, poured a measure into the packed sand. It soaked into tight mud. He squatted beside Loki and drew his belt dagger, offering it hilt-first. Loki took it with a frown, and Thor tilted his head to the damp earth.

"I thought you could write your words," he said, and Loki snorted wetly. He took the knife, though, playing it through his fingers. Thor settled himself back to the ground. Loki offered nothing, and Thor had a feeling he would have to start the conversation. He cast about for a suitable topic.

"How is Lady Sigyn? I did not see her, this morning."

Loki bowed his head, his knuckles going white about the knife. Thor abruptly remembered what happened the last time he had met his brother with a knife in his hands. He swallowed, but held fast. Whatever wound his brother inflicted would heal.

It seemed for a moment Loki wouldn't respond, and Thor began to consider knocking him about the head again when his brother's hand flashed out, the blade catching the light, and scratched a sentence into the dirt.

_How can you bear to sit next to me, knowing I am a frost giant?_

Thor glanced at Loki, at his fixed expression, then stared out to the training ground. "You mean to ask if I hate you as I hated them. I do not."

Loki growled in his throat, and scratched out more words. They cut deep into the earth. _How can that be? You called them monsters often enough when we were children!_

Even after everything Loki was trembling with unspent emotion. Thor swallowed, and considered his words carefully. "That is a side-effect of any war," he said. "That enemies should demonize one another. As for my part, I no longer hate the Jötunns. Instead, I have learned to hate what they represent to our people: instability and uncertainty. And I have had cause to reevaluate what makes a monster, Loki. It is not due to something so insignificant as heritage."

He took a deep breath and let it out. "Your actions are unforgivable, but I do not hate you for them, Brother. I cannot hate you."

Silence sat heavy as Loki's frown deepened. He flipped the knife back and forth in his hand. Finally he wrote another note. _The brother I knew was never so wise_.

Thor barked a harsh laugh. "Much has changed, Lopt."

Loki made a Midgardian gesture then, extending his middle finger above the rest. Thor laughed again, this time freer, and clapped Loki on the back. He rose to his feet. "Come! Help me finish watering the barren ground. The armsmaster is set on making a farmer out of me, and another pair of hands would make the work go faster."

Loki rolled his eyes, taking the hand his brother extended him. Thor could almost hear his words: _How generous of you_.

They worked together, clearing fallen weapons, sprinkling the sand with water and packing it down so it wouldn't blow away in a bout, and it was almost familiar. Thor didn't presume to think anything would change, however. It was too new, this hope, and too tenuous, to lay any great foundation upon it.

His brother had opened up and shared with him a fragment of his vast mind. The rest would come, in time.

OOO

It was different, the next day. Perhaps it was the recess and the reunion with normalcy. Perhaps it was the workings of Urðr, herself. Whatever it was, when the combatants returned to the table there was a shift in the energy of things. Gone were the flowery protestations that meant nothing; absent were the boasts and false jests.

The negotiators had settled in to negotiate in truth.

The Other made the opening sally, as was its right as the requesting party. "We have said much of what _might_ be, or what together we _could_ do. What future do you see between us, Far-Seer?"

"It was never my gift to see into the future," Odin replied. "Merely the now. And now I see two peoples at odds."

"Need it be so?"

"Asgard welcomes war, but we do not seek it out."

The Other waved this aside. "You dominate those around you. You sit back and congratulate yourself on a job well done, and it _is_ well done, but you have lost your sense ambition. We can return that mettle to Asgardian hearts."

"And who would pay the price of this ambition?"

"There are other worlds. Other 'realms', as you call them. They are weak. They will fall before us, and we will rule."

"To what end?"

"To our end! Need there be more reason than that? Subjugation of lesser beings is a duty of those who are stronger."

"You can restore our fighting spirit. What can we do for you, in exchange?"

"It is said there are certain... artifacts in your possession. They are perhaps of little use to you, being no more than relics, but would greatly appreciate studying them, to see if we might use them to further our cause. We can assist you in their use, that your heritage might not be wasted."

"That is of little benefit to you, seeing to the heritage of others. If they are truly such aged artifacts, of little use outside of curiosity, then they can remain where they are. What other boon would you demand of our partnership?"

"If not the right to access the ancient artifacts of your kingdom, then we would seek custody of the Betrayer, Loki Laufeyson. He has wronged us, and we would take him to task for the crimes he has committed against our people."

There was a faint look of triumph on Odin's face. "You seek my son in exchange for returning the fight to Asgard. This seems an uneven trade."

"It is the rejuvenation of your people, Allfather. The removal of one who would attempt to tear you down as he sought to ruin us, and the firing of your hearts. It is a bargain."

"It is my son."

"He is not truly your son, he is the get of your enemy. Why shelter him?"

"I will not attempt to explain the motivations of a parent to one who conquers other worlds for the pleasure of it."

"Then we are at odds. I propose we adjourn once more, that the Chitauri might summon an exchange to better suit your tastes."

"We await your renewed terms. Good day, Leader of the Chitauri."

The abruptness of the recess, jarring after so many days of circular speech and endless talks, sent the witnesses into a flurry of motion. Whispers surged like breakers against the rocks, and Thor clapped a hand to Loki's shoulder.

"You see, brother," he murmured into his ear. "Father would not abandon you."

Loki rose with his brother, but did not reply. Had be been able, he might have said how Odin had never once looked to him.

But he could not speak, so he said nothing.

He said nothing, and he prepared to catch the other shoe when it fell.


	15. Chapter 15

Sigyn was restless. It was one of those increasingly less rare nights where sleep eluded, and it was not due to the softness of her bed, or the light of the full moon that slipped through her bedroom curtains. She stared at the ceiling, and her thoughts drew her to one man. Loki, fatherless son.

She had known he was of frost giant descent, it had spread throughout the City and all the lands of Asgard since his return. She had even imagined what he would look like, blue as one of the terrors of her childhood. Reality had not matched the fantasy. It had not been the red of his eyes that had frightened, her, but the mockery and cruelty within. The icy bite of his skin was less strange to her than the bite of violence in his touch.

He had shown what must surely have been his most shamed secret, and he had done so to frighten her away.

How wounded he must be.

How dangerous the wounded dog, blinded by pain into biting any outstretched hand.

The conflict in her, the action with the intent she knew must have been behind it, coiled through her mind, twining like symbiotic ask and embla trees. Lover trees, they were called. The irony suited her twisting mood.

There was a charge in the air, this night. The Chitauri had left, but in their wake was an electric tingle of anticipation not unlike the feeling before lightning struck. Sigyn wondered how few were sleeping peacefully. She flopped her arm out on the covers, imagining Loki lying beside her and gazing back, and she cursed herself a fool.

Loki had proved himself violent toward her, just as she had feared he might. He had overpowered her as easily as she had predicted. The press of his hands against her throat—she still remembered it, and she shuddered. She touched the bruises she knew marred her skin.

She curled in a ball, pulling the covers over her head, and her mind raced itself in endless loops.

OOO

It would be tonight. Loki packed his supplies in a satchel he had found buried in the back of his wardrobe, a relic of his childhood before he had been able to manipulate dimensional pockets to store his belongings. In it went his papers, his bundled and wrapped herbs, his mortar and pestle and the healing stones, tucked safe in a pouch. A few other articles—candles, a fire globe, oil—these went in, as well.

The Chitauri had once more decamped to their leviathans rather than accept the hospitality of Odin's Hall. Despite their distance Loki found no ease. He feared their next move, for as surely as he knew the sun would rise in the morning he knew the Chitauri would not return to the negotiation table. They were an impatient people, and they held to polite custom only as long as it benefitted them. An attack would come within the next few days, if not tonight.

Yet for all it heralded imminent threat Loki was glad of the distance for one reason: it meant his guards lessened their watch. He readied two handfuls of sleep powder, purloined from the healing wing along with the stones.

The guards never saw his attack coming. It was child's play, the quality of prank he had gotten away with when his age measured in the single digits. He stepped to the fore, they turned to him, he blew each handful into their faces. It took time for the powder to take effect, time for them to sneeze and blink and realize, but not enough to call for aid.

He dragged the bodies into his rooms. It would be suspicious for them to be absent from their post, but far more so for them to be present and unconscious.

He hefted his satchel to his shoulder and slipped down the stairs and through the corridors to the Hall of Noble Dead. The way was deserted. The Chitauri had everyone on edge, not just Loki, and what parties there were were few and sober. Neither did pages nor servants roam, wary of the bogeymen encamped just outside the City, tucked away in the hills of the mainland. Only the guards stood watch, and they, too, stood wary—but they did not see Loki.

The Hall was silent. It was midsummer, and the shaft of moonlight from the oculus speared the gloom like a bolt from Gungnir. Loki locked the doors behind him, barring the way with spears taken from the hands of the guardian statues.

Suddenly nervous, he walked to the pool of light in the center of the floor. He looked about, but there was no one. He let the satchel slip off his shoulder.

First things first. He pulled out the bag holding the peyote buttons and spread them out before him. According to what he had read (and it had been a scanty account), it would take about an hour for the drug to take effect. He julienned twelve buttons and eased them between his stitches, unable to stop his flush at the indignity.

The taste was indescribable. He could barely stomach chewing them, and the bitterness alone threatened to trigger his gag reflex. He paused eight buttons in, swallowing convulsively. Nothing in the texts had mentioned this. He breathed deeply, focusing on settling his stomach.

He shoved the remaining slices in his mouth, chewed and swallowed as fast as he could. His stomach rolled, but didn't rebel.

Loki reached for the candles next, setting them at the cardinal points of the oculus' cast circle. Then the herbs, the charcoal and his papers. He emptied the satchel and spread its contents before him.

He had gone over the ritual countless times over the past days. He knew every step by heart, knew the words backwards and forwards, and yet he couldn't shake the feeling he was playing at magic, that this was merely a joke and he was the butt of it. He ground the herbs together, grinding his fears and doubts with them as he forced himself deeper into the trance.

The urge to vomit came on strong, and he curled over himself in sudden panic. He couldn't vomit, he couldn't—if he had poisoned himself, what if... He had never considered whether the compounds in peyote would interact favorably with the Draught. Not once had he thought whether his physiology would respond to them as a Midgardian's might. He had assumed that since alcohol was the same across realms, then psychotropic plants were, too. He cursed himself for his stupidity and fought back the urge to retch. It would get him nowhere, and would probably choke him as soon as help him. He readied a knife to cut his stitches, just in case.

The spasm faded, leaving Loki a shivering, sweating wreck in its wake, and he hurried through the rest of the preparations. He lit the stick of braided sage and sweetgrass with the fire globe, tending it until it settled into a smoldering ember. His nose stung at the astringent smell of the smoke. He found himself wondering if Midgardians had even one pleasant holy plant. He couldn't blow the smoke, but he wafted it and spread it about as well as he could with hands. Supposedly this would clear out interfering forces and pave the way for his spell.

He set the smudge down, careless of making a mark, and pulled out the crushed herbs. Dividing them in half, he used the powder to outline the circle on the floor.

He paused every so often to fight back waves of nausea, and dull panic, and certainty he was slowly killing himself. He shrugged at the last. At least dead he wouldn't have to be afraid—Thanos had been right about that.

Circle sealed, he seated himself within, lit the candles, and committed the final preparations before he was caught in the trip. He loosened the top of his shirt to bare his chest and pulled off his boots, setting them aside. His flesh pimpled in the cool air. To the remaining herbs he added a measure of oil and several drops of his blood, cut from a vein in his wrist before he stanched it. He mixed it into a watery, foul-smelling paste, then sat back, mustering his fraying thoughts.

He could not chant, nor could he play rhythms as was traditional. He could, however, whisper the incantation in his mind, and he felt a hum rise up from his belly. It tickled his stitches, but it felt _right_. He picked up the healing stones, humming tonelessly, and smeared them with the paste in the mortar. He held them close, warming them with his body. He smirked at the thought of a frost giant showing body heat.

...Perhaps it made sense, though, for a being in a world of ice to cleave with even greater strength to warmth and light. He was paralyzed by this thought, and the profundities within, for almost a minute before he remembered what he was doing.

He examined the stones, and judging them sufficiently warm to the touch, crushed them over the mortar. The added powder thickened the paste, and Loki swore he saw flickers of wholesome green and blue lights when he looked at it out of the corner of his eyes. He sat spellbound for a moment, turning his head from side to side and testing how holding his breath made them flare and blowing it out made them dance.

Manipulating his own magic had never felt like this.

Shaking his head to clear it and marveling instead at the sensation of his brain squishing about in his skull, he scooped up a dollop of the paste and smeared it on his forehead, over the Seer's Eye nexus. Then, careful not to get any of it in his mouth, outlined the Word's Deed nexus. Next the Soul's Center nexus, the Breath's Home nexus, and the Seat of the World nexus. Next came the Grounding nexus, one per foot, and Loki was distracted for a time by the intricate play of tendon and muscle beneath his skin. He flexed his toes, caught between the feel of it from the inside and the sight of it from the outside. Then it was the Action nexus, and he smeared the paste on the backs of his hands. His fingers were long, like albino arachnids. Albino arachnids, which did not rhyme but alliterated instead.

That should about do it. All the nexus covered. He wondered how long it would take for the magic to start.

Loki stared upward, through the oculus at the sliver of moon that remained, and he reached up a hand, certain to touch it, but it proved too far away. He... had _known_ that, but it had seemed so close, as close as the flames of the candles. He stared into the fire, entranced by the dancing figures within. He saw colors he had never thought to see before, shades of red and orange and yellow, and blue, heavenly, cool blue, that he could see clearly as though he hadn't opened his eyes once in all the centuries of his life. His breath caught in his throat.

He tried to speak, to hear his voice, but he couldn't open his mouth through the stitches. A tendril of darkness curled itself into his visions, and without thinking Loki raised his palm and cast a magelight, brilliant enough to illuminate the entirety of the Hall, to banish it from his mind. It worked half-well; the tendril retreated, but it lingered, sending out roots just beyond his reach. That might have been because he had blinded himself from the light, though. He blinked away spots.

So he _did_ have magic. The spell worked. He jumped to his feet and whooped as much as he could, drawing threads of power from the new-forged well within him and lobbing out a shower of sparks. A feeling of exquisite buoyancy filled him, and he thought if it weren't an appalling waste of his newfound power he would try actually flying. There was no reason Thor should get all the fun.

Loki left the circle, but left the candles burning, for he couldn't bear to extinguish those beautiful colors. He did, however, gather his papers and tuck them into the satchel. It wouldn't do for them to be found.

He lifted the spears from the doors and carefully returned them to their owners. He had a Gauntlet to collect.


	16. Chapter 16

Thor couldn't have said what woke him. It was a restlessness that pulled and tugged him right from sleep and refused to let him settle. He sat up, pushed back his hair, and frowned.

Something was wrong. He was needed.

Never one to question gut instinct, Thor swung out of bed and dressed, forgoing his more casual tunics in favor of full armor. He waved aside the concern of his manservant, Þjálfi, and stepped out.

The restlessness grew stronger in the corridor. Rather than question it, Thor followed the mental tug to the right. It was a quiet night, subdued and waiting, and Thor felt the menace in it. He resisted the urge to draw his hammer.

His instinct carried him past Loki's chambers. There, he stopped in his tracks, for his brother's guards were absent, and in their place a satchel hung suspended from the doorknob. It was an old bag of Loki's, he saw, from when they were children. He picked it up and the clank of ceramic met his ears. Glancing inside, he found a mortar and pestle smeared with a foul-smelling paste and a sheaf of papers, covered in his brother's frantic handwriting. Apprehension settled low in Thor's gut. He opened the door.

Loki's guards were splayed across the floor, limbs and halberds tangled together in untidy piles. Thor let the satchel slip from his fingers and hurried to the closest, a man he knew was named Haleth. He pulled him over onto his back, and a fine powder drifted from his cheeks. Sleeping powder. Thor relaxed, then hastily checked for breath and a pulse. They were there. Loki had not overdosed them, then. A tension Thor hadn't noticed slipped away, and he settled Haleth into a more comfortable position. He rearranged the others, then summoned a page. They would be asleep for hours, yet; better the healers tend them. Then he stood, and forcing back his discomfort at invading Loki's privacy, searched the rooms for any other clues.

His brother was, of course, absent. On the desk, however, was a half-written letter addressed to Lady Sigyn. Thor looked about, guilty, then read what his brother had written.

It was an apology, cut off mid-sentence with an angry slash of ink. Thor could see his brother in his mind's eye, sitting at his desk and lashing out at the page in his frustration. It matched the sharp temper Loki bore, of late. The words within, however, were far more tender than he would have thought.

_I have no hope of retaining a fond place in your heart, my lady, but I beg you, do not deny your forgiveness. I will plague you not a moment longer-let me go with that small comfort._

Thor looked up from the page, gazed about the room. "Loki, what have you done."

The page arrived, rubbing sleep from his eyes, his doublet hastily thrown together. "Send for the healers," Thor commanded, and the boy jerked awake. "Tell them to remain silent, and to send four stretchers. Do you understand?" The boy nodded furiously, then scampered out with a sketchy bow.

Thor snatched up the satchel and pulled out the papers. The first was a list of ingredients: herbs, oil, candles, other items. Thor recognized none of the herbs. The second was a procedure, to be carried out under the light of the moon. He knew less of spellcraft than his brother, but he remembered his lessons in early magical history, and recognized it as a primitive casting. It was a spell, but he could make neither heads nor tails of it. His eyes caught once more on the letter.

Maybe Lady Sigyn could. She had been deep in Loki's confidences of late, perhaps she had some insight to his actions. That is, if what had fallen between her and his brother was not irreconcilable. Thor gathered the papers and shoved them back into the satchel, threw the strap over his shoulder and burst into the hallway.

It had been several weeks since last he had visited Astriðholmr, but he remembered it well enough to find his way back. The rooms for the Royal Family were among the highest in Glaðsheimr, both for privacy and security as well as to reinforce their status. The floor below held rooms for visitors and dignitaries, nothing being more honorable than the exalted treatment of guests, and below that gathered the residences of those nobles honored with apartments in the palace itself. They were ranked in tiers, spreading outwards beneath the flutes of Glaðsheimr until the lowest levels—the public levels—where the healing wing, the libraries, offices for all the chiefdoms, the audience halls, the banqueting halls, and the barracks for the Royal Guard, all found their home.

Sigyn was Third Tier courtesy of her mother's rank, and her apartments were in the east wing. Thor wound down the grand staircase, circling the hollow central tower, and made his way toward the Third Tier. The guards standing watch straightened as he passed.

He paused before her doorway. It was lined with plants, and a hare, the emblem of Njall Hallvardson, was emblazoned courant to the sinister upon the door. In the future, Thor, mused, he would have to make time to visit without the threat of his missing brother hanging over his head. He stepped forward to ring the bell.

It was many long moments before a servant roused to answer, and he saw it was the same one he had spoken to last time. He wondered what her name was. "I need to speak with Lady Sigyn," he said. "I would not bother you but for the most grave import," he added at the woman's look of shock.

"Who is it, Ane?" a voice called from within, and Thor recognized Lady Sigyn's voice.

He spoke up. "It is I, my lady, Thor."

There was a moment of silence, then hasty footsteps. Sigyn opened the door wider. She wore an embroidered surcoat, and her hair was braided loosely over her shoulder. "Thank you, Ane, you can go back to bed."

"Miss," she said, dropping a curtsey to her mistress and a doubtful glance to Thor. She vanished down a side hall.

"Would you come in, Highness?" Sigyn asked, opening the door wider and beckoning him in. She took in his armor and the hammer at his side without batting a lash.

"No, my lady. Or at least, not for long. Loki is missing again, and this time I'm afraid the circumstances are far more dire."

Sigyn paled, then beckoned him in again. "Best come in," she said. "Halls have ears."

Thor acquiesced to her wisdom and slipped in past her. She closed the door behind him, and led him to the sitting room they had first met. Thor lowered the satchel from his shoulder, and his eyes caught on a ring of bruises around Sigyn's neck, clear and black above the low neckline of her nightclothes. He froze.

"My lady, your neck," he said.

Her hands flew up to the bruises. "Oh. It's nothing."

No, it wasn't. The bruises were livid. "It was Loki, wasn't it."

Her hand dropped, and her gaze met squarely with his. "Yes. But he was not himself."

Thor felt anger and hurt simmer up from the place he had tamped it down. Why must his brother insist on casting aside everything precious in his life? "My lady, if he is hurting you—"

Sigyn threw up her hands. "For the love of the Ancients he is _not_ beating me! When I say Loki was not himself, I mean precisely that he was not himself! You have seen how on edge he has been, Thor; what happened was a misguided attempt to, to _protect_ me from what he feared. I am not excusing him when I say that, but this was an isolated incident." She paused, staring off into the distance, and Thor got the impression she had come to a realization. "He has never been anything but gentle to me, otherwise." Her gaze snapped back to him. "And, just so you know, I am not entirely helpless. I am a fully trained sorcerer."

Thor gave her a measuring glance, then nodded. She was strong. She would not let anyone—not him, not his brother—intimidate her if she decided to stand firm. "As you say, my lady. But Loki is still missing, and the circumstances do not look kindly on him." He hefted the satchel onto the table and pulled out the contents. The mortar and pestle he set in the middle, the fire globe and empty bags and bindings beside them. Then the papers, which he handed directly to her.

"I found these hanging from his door. The guards were missing, and when I went in, they had been drugged and dragged inside. Those are notes for a spell; I cannot decipher them, but I thought you might be able to."

Sigyn read, and her eyes widened, and she put a hand over her mouth. "Oh, Loki," she murmured. "What have you done."

Thor tensed, fingers twitching for Mjölnir. "What is it?"

Sigyn cleared her throat and looked up at him. "This is a spell for artificially creating magic," she said. "The caster taps into the magical energy of another spell or empowered object and binds it to their nexus points so they can access it."

"What does this mean for Loki?"

She shook her head, scanning the papers. "I'm not sure, it looks like he adapted several spells for his purposes. The theory is brilliant, but... it must be untried, and the herb lore is patchy."

Chills ran down Thor's spine. "I have never known my brother to be careless in his magical work."

Sigyn's eyes were dark and worried as she read. "These are powerful herbs," she said. "Powerful, and with multiple significances I seriously doubt Loki was aware of. Here—acacia leaves. He's marked them in a formation meant to enhance one's personal power, but acacia also opens psychic centers. Not so bad a goal, if he's is attempting what I think he is, but combined with vervain... vervain summons visions. The wider one's nexus, the greater vervain's influence. This is bad, Thor. His perception will be skewed with peyote, his nexus wide open, and—" She gave a muffled sort of choke and a flush crept across her cheeks.

"What is it?" Thor demanded.

"Oh, dear," Sigyn said. Perversely, she was trying to stifle a smile. "Oh, Loki. 'Shoddy research from a sorcerer'."

"What!"

"On Midgard, herbs were often associated with local deities," Sigyn said. She couldn't quite meet Thor's gaze. "Two of the herbs Loki has bookmarked for—" she glanced at the spell, "—strength and protection, garlic cloves and thistle, they're... well, they're associated with you."

Thor stared at her in confusion. "I have never heard of these plants before. How could they be associated with me?"

Sigyn was shaking her head. "It doesn't matter your personal involvement, these herbs were consecrated to your purpose by shamans—early Midgardian sorcerers—who felt they shared magical properties that echoed your own. It's a magical resonance, Highness, not a personal one."

Thor shrugged. "So my brother used herbs dedicated to me. Why does that matter?"

"Because he also used bloodroot," Sigyn said. Thor shook his head, and she elaborated. "Bloodroot is a joining agent. Its purpose in a spell is to bring together divorced entities and re-unify them. It's the core of Loki's spell, and understandably so; he means to bond, via blood-seiðr, magic from what looks like a set of healing stones to his nexus. The problem is that bloodroot was traditionally used in matters of love and family strife, not magical affinity. It is a healing herb, as are many of these others.

"In effect, this spell will strip him bare to magical forces and then summon you to protect him. Loki, however inadvertently, has cast a spell to heal his fraternal strife." Her stifled smile was back, at war with her worry-creased brow.

Thor stared at her, at an utter loss as to what he should say let alone feel or do. "We must go."

"What?"

"The spell. Loki has already cast it." He glanced to Sigyn, then reached over the table to gather the contents of the satchel back together. "I woke from a dead sleep this night with the urge to go to Loki's chambers. He was not there, and so I came here. His spell is cast, and it is active. We must find him before he commits some devilry." He quashed down the inappropriate, bubbling hope and stuffed everything in the satchel. "Where may I put this? It would not do to walk about the palace with evidence of my brother's mischief in hand."

"Here, I'll take it," she said. "I need to change, anyhow. Wait here." She grabbed the satchel and wove around chairs to disappear down the hall.

Thor turned to face the darkened sitting room. Now that he concentrated, he could feel it—a pulling sensation in the back of his mind, as though he were forgetting some crucial detail. It drew him downwards, through Glaðsheimr's endless stories, and grew fainter even as he listened, as though the thought were slipping away.

"My question is," Sigyn said, reemerging from her room clad in a sturdy dress beneath her surcoat, "is where is he? I'm afraid I can't find him for you, this time."

"That is no matter," Thor said. "The spell requires the light of the moon, yes? The moon appears exactly above the oculus in the Hall of Noble Dead tonight and the next two. If Loki seeks to join power to his nexus points, where better than at the nexus of the entire palace?"

Sigyn's eyes widened, and she nodded. "Let's go."

Thor led the way, spiraling down the outside of the oculus' shaft until they reached the public floors, wherein their path broke away from the central tower and they were forced to take side halls and corridors to regain the Hall beneath it.

Loki was not in the Hall. It was empty but for the silent statues and a ring of half-melted candles cast in shadow. "Would that it were so easy," Sigyn muttered. Thor glanced to her. She was crouched over the circle, examining the ring of gray powder that linked the candles. As he watched, she stood and waved a hand, and a gentle wind blew through the Hall, sweeping away the powder and extinguishing the candles. These she gathered and, along with Loki's discarded boots, whisked them all into a dimensional pocket.

"So Loki has magic, once more," Thor said, peering up at the darkened oculus. "He wouldn't have cast this spell, gone to such effort, without a purpose in mind. What was his purpose?"

"Both his greatest weapons were lost to him, when he could neither speak nor cast," Sigyn said. "And the way he looked when the Chitauri arrived—he was vulnerable. Scared."

Thor grimaced. "My brother hates being vulnerable."

"What would he have done when you were children? If he had been threatened and couldn't fight back?"

"He would have hid. Or come back later with a cruel prank. It was ever his way to attack from the side, rather than the front."

Sigyn bowed her head. "He harbors a great deal of resentment toward you, Thor."

"I know." Thor shifted, thinking of a conversation above a Midgardian forest. His brother was hidden in his shadow, but Thor couldn't see a way to change it. He loved his brother, but there were few who could compete with Thor Odinson and win.

His train of thought was derailed at a twinge at the back of his mind, a pull that fair screamed he was needed. He wheeled about, staring through countless paces of stone and metal toward the throne room. He didn't stop to question the sensation; he knew he had to go. He swept out of the hall, Sigyn trailing after him in confusion.

"Thor?" she called. "Thor, what is it? Is it the spell?" He disregarded her questions, and picked up speed until he was running through the halls. He pulled Mjölnir from his belt, hefting it as he ran. The guards lining the alcoves peered after in confusion and worry, but didn't break ranks. No alarm had yet been sounded.

They came to the passage behind Hliðskjalf, slipping between the curtains to the curving back the throne. Beyond the light of the fire pit stood the door to the catacombs, and the way to the weapons vault far below. Thor spared a moment's relief that the guards were still in place. He hurried past them to the entrance to the throne room, Sigyn in tow.

Valaskjálf was silent. Only the rippling of the pennants hung from the eaves disturbed the calm, night air. Gilded columns lined the center pavilion like sentinels, and moonlight cast the scene in sharp-edged chiaroscuro.

Thor looked, and he saw a figure kneeling, barefoot and disheveled, before the throne. Loki. He was as a statue, bone-pale in the silver light, and he faced the smiling curve of Hliðskjalf with his shoulders slumped in a forsaken bow. Thor stepped cautiously, Sigyn behind. They moved to where they could see his face.

Loki's eyes were huge, like those of a frightened child, and his pupils blown wide and dark. He stared at the throne, his gaze a thousand paces away, and he didn't recognize their presence any more than he did the tears running down his cheeks. Thor could see the gooseflesh standing out on his bare forearms.

"Loki?" Sigyn said from where she stood behind Thor. She stepped around him, as though to go to his brother, and Thor threw an arm across her path.

"Stop," he said. "Don't touch him." Sigyn's face, first puzzled, now hardened. "I don't mean to be cruel, my lady, but my brother is not with us, and it would go poorly if you brought him back too suddenly."

A tiny noise, lost and heartbroken, spilled from Loki's lips, interrupting their battle of wills. Both turned to him. Loki was no longer staring at the throne, but his gaze, clear and focused and painfully knowing, stared down the hall to where it opened to the Causeway beyond. He was drawn tight as a whipcord, and his breath was the sharp staccato of burgeoning panic.

"Loki, what is it?" Thor asked, not truly expecting an answer but stepping up beside his brother and scanning the throne room just the same. Loki inhaled, a sobbing, terrified sound, and through it Thor heard a low hum, distant and soft and ominous. Thor stared down the Causeway, certainty clogging his heart as the hum rose into a haunting, familiar whine.

Sigyn came up to stand by Loki's other side. "What is it?" she asked.

Loki shuddered, and Thor answered. "The Chitauri," he said. "They are attacking." As if it punctuate his words a squadron of battle skiffs screamed overhead, their formation blossoming open like a flower as it poured down through the open coliseum. Energy bolts fell from their rifles like pollen from a stamen.

The sons of Odin moved in concert. Loki seized Sigyn's arm and dragged her down, shielding her body with his own, and Thor batted the bolts away with mighty swings of Mjölnir. The deflected bolts went wild, corkscrewing into pillars and gouging the floor with black, sooty streaks. One flew back and struck its own sniper in the chest. With a bellow, Thor leaped up to meet the oncoming skiffs. He flew straight through the first one, Mjölnir hammering through hard metal and soft flesh, and Thor came out the other side swinging.

The battle was short, for the Chitauri were neither strong nor crafty, and he tore them apart. In his mind's eye he was beside the man called Steve Rogers, and the assassin and soldier were with them. He wrested the pilot of one of the skiffs from its cradle and threw it over the side, leaping to the next when the loosed skiff made for a pillar.

Drones rappelled from the remaining skiffs, forcing Thor to divide his attack. He could not fight both the aircraft and the infantry; he would have to choose between eliminating the aerial threat and the safety of his brother and Lady Sigyn. Thor jumped from the skiff and crushed the skull of the Chitauri nearest him. It popped with the wet sound of a melon dropped from a height.

He raised his hammer to the next drone, and the next. He parried a stream of bolts from the sharpshooters circling above, and fought his way back to the throne room proper.

Loki was there, Lady Sigyn beside him, and both of them were casting bolts of compressed energy into the oncoming ranks. Sigyn had conjured a spear and was using it to direct her attacks, but Loki had only his hands and his wild, half-mad countenance to strike fear into the hearts of his foes. The marks on his face and bared chest flared blue with each bolt that left his hands, and with each bolt they flared more weakly.

"Go!" Sigyn yelled. "We have the ground here, take out the skiffs!" Thor turned to Loki, but his brother was in a world far distant from their own. His eyes glittered weirdly in the stuttering flares of combat. Thor nodded and turned, whirling up a windstorm and riding it into a passing skiff.

The battle was over just as furiously as it had begun, and soon the throne room was quiet, littered with the sparking wreckage of the skiffs and the shattered groans of drones not quite dead. Beyond, the sky hummed.

Thor looked around, breathless with the winded sensation of being without another target. He caught sight of Loki, collapsed to his knees once more with his fisted hands pressed to his forehead. Sigyn knelt over him, her arms wrapped tight about his shoulders. She looked beseechingly at Thor.

He felt his heart twist in his chest. "This was but a scouting party," he said, voice ragged. "I must sound the alarm to rouse the Einherjar."

Sigyn nodded, somber and tense. "You must do what you must."

Thor knelt before Loki, setting down Mjölnir and reaching a hand to cup his brother's neck. "I will return, Loki," he said. "Do not doubt it."

Loki said nothing, but he unclenched one of his hands and laid it over Thor's. His fingers were clammy. Thor squeezed gently, then pulled away. Loki shivered as he did, and Sigyn tucked him closer to her side.

Thor spun Mjölnir once more, and launched himself into the sky.

The heavens above were a riot of celestial motion. Stars and clouds of gases illuminated the City, and the moon, waxing gibbous and settling down from its apogee, was a pearl in its velvet background. Beneath the display, cast silver in the wan light, rose the leviathans, surging toward the stars with distant groans. They were cloaked by a cloud of their own: a wave of Chitauri skiffs that blacked out the burning suns behind. The hum of their flight over the coastal hills to the City stoked Thor's battle rage.

Who were these beings, these cowards, that they thought they could interrupt peaceful negotiations and reject the hospitality of their hosts in favor of an invasion? That they could attack a sovereign realm in his own stronghold? Thunder clouds rolled thick over Asgard, summoned by the hand of her prince. Thor hovered mid-air, glaring at the approaching army. He swung Mjölnir in a lethal circle, whipping himself and the thunder above into a righteous, fighting wrath. When it reached its peak, he let loose the chained lightning and threw it with all his strength toward the uppermost tower of Glaðsheimr.

She rang like a bell. The lightning rippled around the oculus, clamoring against the metal casing, and the tube of the tower sang her basso profundo. The descending, lesser towers vibrated in sympathy, lending their harmonics to the sonorous note.

All over the city birds flew crying from their roosts, and the Einherjar followed after, turning out from their beds with sword in hand and armor half-strapped on.

Thor howled his challenge to the oncoming enemy, and once more the lightning flew.


	17. Chapter 17

Sigyn covered her ears against the wall of sound that tore through the halls, billowing up the pennants and curtains in its wake. Her breath shivered in and out of her lungs in sympathy. Beside her, Loki arched as though in ecstasy, throwing his head back and bowing in the surge.

When it faded, leaving echoes like aftershocks, the silence was stunning. Everything seemed to hum, and Sigyn wasn't sure she herself wasn't humming, too. She had never heard the tower sing in her lifetime. It was struck when the City was threatened; the only sound rarer was Heimdall's horn, blown when Asgard herself was threatened to muster the outlying militia.

Loki's breath was erratic, sweat standing out on his brow, and his eyes were bright, tracking patterns and energies through the empty air Sigyn couldn't hope to follow. The vartari stood even more hideously from this innocent-seeming expression. She pulled his face toward hers.

"Loki, love, we have to go," she said, feeling the anxious press of anticipation in the back of her mind. "We need to get you to the healing wing before the Chitauri arrive."

Loki didn't acknowledge her words, but instead stared at her, eyes wide with awe and amazement. He raised a hand and stroked his fingers against her cheek, around the outside of her eye, down the bridge of her nose. He traced the scar on her lip, then around her mouth. Her skin tingled where he touched, and she parted her lips on a breathless gasp. Sigyn stared at the dumbstruck look on his lean, pointed face, and her heart began to beat apace.

He was beautiful. He was riding high as the moon, but the glitter of drugs in his eyes was as compelling as the rhetoric of a madman. Sigyn had never seen him this free to his thoughts and impulses. It was intoxicating.

It was also dangerous. She reached up and stilled his hand against her neck. "Loki," she said, snapping him out of his trance. "We must go, the Chitauri are coming soon."

A myriad of emotions swirled through Loki's eyes, fear, confusion, anger, horror, determination. His hand spasmed, and Sigyn shivered, prying his fingers away from her skin. "Focus, Loki," she said. "Think. We need to get away from here, the Einherjar will need room to maneuver."

The look he gave her was the closest to her Loki that she had seen in nearly a week. It was calculating, evaluating, weighing. He took her measure, took his own, took the measure of the insignificant spider's web suspended a hundred ells over her shoulder. When he was done, he stood, hauling Sigyn up with him. He met her gaze squarely and planted his feet, shaking his head.

Sigyn's heart cramped in her chest. "Loki, we can't stay here," she said. "We're neither of us warriors."

Loki scowled, dark and ugly, and stepped back from her. She could almost hear his words. _I am a prince of Odin, raised in that house to the demands of that house. I am a warrior as great as my brother!_

The air between them nigh vibrated with the power behind his unspoken declaration, as though the tower were speaking once more. Sigyn gazed at Loki, saw the determination and hopeless rage hiding misery and shame, and made a decision. She swept back into a full curtsey, bowing her head and her will to him, and held the position the four seconds demanded by formal court rule before rising. She reached a hand out and summoned to her the spear she had cast aside, planting it beside her. "As my lord commands," she said. "So will I obey."

They stared at each other, caught in the tableau, and only the clatter of approaching armor broke their gaze. Loki gawked at the Einherjar scrambling from the barracks and their private homes to muster beneath the Allfather's banner. He drew closer to Sigyn, and she restrained her urge to reach out to him.

The crash of doors behind caused Loki to jerk about, and Sigyn didn't restrain herself this time, reaching out to his arm when she saw the Allfather emerge, in full battle armor, with Thor by his side. Behind them trailed Thor's companions, the aptly named Warriors Three and the Lady Sif.

Loki had turned white, but he was staring at his father as though through new eyes.

The Allfather, if he was surprised to see them there, hid it well. He nodded to them. "Loki. Lady Sigyn."

Sigyn curtseyed once more, a shallower one out of consideration for the situation. Loki showed no reverence, but his eyes were full of fearful awe. Odin paid no attention. Instead, he turned to address to the massed standing army of Asgard.

"The Chitauri envoy is attacking the City. Their force is three-fold: ground troops, light aerial forces in the form of their battle skiffs and heavy aerial forces in the form of the leviathans. Leave the leviathans to myself and my son; leave the skiffs to the Ægirjar. Your concern is for the infantry and civilian evacuations. Lady Eir is establishing a camp outside the City on Æðey; direct all refugees in that direction. Secure the Causeway; isolate a perimeter four hundred paces around the civic plaza and cast this scourge out." He slammed the butt of Gungnir against the floor, and the troops filed out, following the bellowed commands of their sergeants and captains.

Odin turned to Loki, and Sigyn saw something like hope flicker in her prince's eyes. "Stay here, Loki," Odin said, and Sigyn couldn't hold back her sigh of relief. The betrayal was hot in Loki's glare. The Allfather continued. "I need you here, to guard the weapons vault. I fear that is their target."

Color bled into Loki's cheeks, and his fists clenched at his sides. Sigyn tried to lay a hand on his shoulder, but Loki shrugged it off, glowering at her. She fell back, nervous at his manner, even more mercurial than his norm.

Odin paid no acknowledgement to his son's distress, merely striding out the throne room to the rear passage. Thor looked after, then stepped up to his brother. "I am sorry," he said. "I would have you by my side."

"I will be at his," Sigyn said. "He will not be alone." She returned her hand to Loki's shoulder, and this time he did not shrug it off, glancing between her and his brother.

Thor nodded. He clapped a hand on Loki's other shoulder. "Then fight well, brother. We'll make sure to leave some for you and your lady." He gathered his companions about him, and together they charged out the throne room to the Causeway beyond.

Sigyn watched Loki, watched the line of his shoulders as they trembled. He turned to face her, and she saw plainly his humiliation at having been kept behind. She stepped in, pressed her palm against his naked chest, over her locket. "It is easier for me, this way," she said. "I am no soldier; you would have wasted your energies protecting me in open battle rather than attending to the Allfather's plan."

Loki stared at her, eyes vulnerable and searching, then his gaze softened and he reached a hand to her cheek, stroking around the edge of her eye and down the bridge of her nose. He bent to rest his forehead against hers. The whine of the Chitauri skiffs rose to a crescendo outside, underscored by the pulsing bass of the leviathans' passage, and the sounds of gunfire and shouting arose in the distance.

Sigyn trembled. She was no soldier; she had never faced open battle, and her hand gripped the shaft of her spear so hard her fingers ached from the pressure. Loki brought his arms around her, and stared into her eyes, and she stared back, desperate.

His gaze still glittered with drugs and a wash of fear, but they held also compassion and pride. He chucked her under the chin and pulled back, reaching for her spear hand. He closed his hand over hers, enveloping it with the cool warmth of his body. He squeezed reassuringly. Then he summoned a twist of magic, and she heard from the empty air, as though from a distance, an unfamiliar voice saying, "Remember, magic is mostly visualization. All of illusion is."

Sigyn took a deep breath, nodding. "Right, magical principle 101. Not to be confused with _actual_ magical theory, stating all spells should have a proper anchor before you try something stupid and put your eye out."

Loki snorted, and stood back to face the open throne room by her side. It was empty, the peace within belying the chaos they could hear without.

"Loki, I should tell you something," she said, voice shaking with nerves. "It's really not the best time, but if anything happens I want you to know I love you." She looked over at him, and had enough time to register the stunned expression on his face before a squadron of battle skiffs shrieked through the colonnade to deposit their load of drones before the pavilion.

Loki snapped around, flipping daggers into his hands, and Sigyn swung up her spear. Together, they met the Chitauri.

OOO

Thor laughed as he rode the leviathan. It was larger than the one he and Bruce Banner had leveled in Midgard, and this time it was his own city he defended—yet his friends were at his side, and for all the threat it felt almost like another dragon hunt.

Volstagg swung his axe at a dive-bombing skiff, severing the tail of it from the fore and sending it and its passengers careening into the cobbles below. Beyond, the archers on the trailing longship cried their displeasure. Volstagg threw them a rude gesture and turned back to hacking at the drones that clambered up to fight him.

Thor laughed again, and readied for Lady Sif's strike. She was near the tail of the beast, glaive at the ready, and both Hogun and Fandral awaited her. "Now!" Thor bellowed, and with the lightest of steps Sif ran toward her companions.

In a smooth, practiced motion they caught her and flung her forward. She flew through the air like an avenging Valkyrie. She landed on the leviathan's head, driving down her glaive with all the force of her descent behind it. The leviathan bellowed and Thor lunged forward, slamming Mjölnir against the butt of the glaive. The weapon sank through the plated armor of the leviathan's skull and into its brain, and Thor felt once more the stomach-swooping sensation as the leviathan he rode fell from the sky.

"Time to see Master Brumi again!" Fandral crowed, running forward, and the four answered his laugh. The leviathan swooped and hitched in its death throes, and Thor's howl of adrenalized glee rose to match those of his companions. Overhead he saw his father riding by, the steps of his eight-legged steed light as eiderdown on the clouds as he raced down the second leviathan.

All around the battle surged, longships slicing through the air after the outgunned but more maneuverable skiffs, soldiers and guards hacking down landed drones even as they protected the lines of retreat. The Chitauri fell like flies to a swatter, and their skiffs, despite their speed, could not match the firepower of even one longship. Thor grinned, and jumped from the leviathan before it hit the ground.

His triumph was short-lived, for in the distance arose another groan. Thor felt his elation shiver away, and as he looked a third leviathan rose up behind the fluted ramparts of the palace, disgorging its burden of drones onto her shining walls.

"No!" he shouted. They were supposed to have drawn the battle away, and they had—too well. The palace was guarded by a single company, whatever Royal Guards remained, and Loki and Sigyn. They would be overwhelmed in the face of such a force. He gathered his friends and raced to Glaðsheimr.

OOO

This hum was different, Sigyn noted, pulling her spear from the chest of the drone before her. It came free with a sucking crunch, and she forced her gorge back. This hum was lower than the screaming whine of skiffs, deeper, more resonant, almost a groan. She paused and looked through the open ceiling to the sky beyond, and it was blacked out as something passed by. The groan pressed down on her ears.

"Loki," she called, and his head jerked up from the drone he was disemboweling. All around them battle raged, guard fighting drone in a shifting, ever-changing mass."There's another leviathan!"

He paled, his face sagging in weary resignation, and yanked the knives free. He tilted his head, beckoning. Sigyn followed.

They slipped out of the battle, skirting the center pavilion to the colossi supporting the roof. Loki hid in their shadows, picking off stray Chitauri as they moved. He led them out the front, down the nascent Causeway, light on his bare feet, and stopped over the bridge between fjorðholmja. To either side dropped the cliffs, plunging to the sea below; behind was the battle, before was the battle, and above the leviathan swam through the air, belching troops onto Glaðsheimr's gilded sides. They skittered like insects down the plate.

Sigyn caught her breath, shoving stray hairs behind her ears, and gripped her spear tighter. Loki's hand on her arm drew her attention. That same voice, male and unfamiliar, rose from the air. She realized it must be Loki's, thrown through magic. "I don't have much magic left," he said. "When I take out the leviathan I will be spent. I'll need your help."

Sigyn looked up, met his gaze. She saw the fear burrowing through his eyes, and nodded. She would do what she must. Loki cupped her cheek, then broke away to stand in the middle of the bridge. He sheathed his daggers and let his hands hang slack, staring up at the leviathan overhead. Sigyn fired a bolt at an encroaching drone.

Loki acknowledged none of it, his eyes fixed on the beast above. It was hideous, segmented and plated and vast. Loki raised his arms, opening his hands toward the leviathan, and the sigils smeared on his skin flared blue once more. He closed his eyes.

Sigyn's attention was forced away from his face by the repeat of gunfire, and she looked up to the palace walls. The Chitauri were perched like snipers, picking off guardsmen from the bridge. One a bare ell from Loki fell, and Sigyn raised her spear.

A gust of wind swept down from the summit, knocking the Chitauri from the heights to the pavement below, and the surviving guards swept in on them, forming a line between them and their prince. A longship swooped past, chasing a stray skiff, and the archers diverted their aim to the drones still stubbornly clinging to the walls. More still came down the sides of the palace, and with every pass the leviathan disgorged more, but Loki was safe. With the guards dealing with the infantry that got too close Sigyn looked farther, picking off more distant targets before they could pose a problem. Her blood sang with nerves and adrenaline.

Behind her, Loki grunted, a low, sickening sound as though the wind had been knocked out of him. Sigyn spun around, heart in her throat.

The first thing she saw was the leviathan. Flashes of light trailed out from beneath its armored plates, and as it swooped crazily overhead Sigyn caught the bitter stench of burnt circuits mingling with the smell of cooking meat.

It collapsed in the plaza, its momentum carrying it through the facade of the Mint and bringing the entire tower down to bury it beneath the rubble.

"Oh," she said, her heart lightening with hope, and all around her the guardsmen's cheers rose up to drown out the Chitauri's shrieks.

Her triumph was short-lived, however, for even as the bricks and metal collapsed over the leviathan Loki collapsed before her. She tried to catch him, but he was too heavy, and the best she could manage was to lower him more gently to the pavement.

"Loki!" Her voice was shrill in her ears. She pressed for a pulse, and it was there, rapid as a bird's against her skin. Relief flooded through her, and she couldn't help her choked sob. She cradled his face in her hands. It was bloodless in the burning light of the battle and his skin was clammy, but he was breathing.

She turned to a nearby guard. "I need to get him to the healing wing!" The man nodded, then shouted to his companion. The two of them stepped to either side of the fallen prince and wrapped his arms about their shoulders. Loki groaned when they hefted him up, head lolling, and Sigyn stepped in close. His eyes couldn't quite focus. "I'm here, love," she murmured to him, stroking his ash-coated cheek. "You're going to be okay." He sighed, hung his head, and Sigyn stepped back.

With a glance to the guards, she took point, leading them back into the palace and the healers within.

The Chitauri chose not to make it easy. Those that had jumped from the leviathan before its demise skittered down the palace walls, leaping from balcony to statue to causeway and screaming in rage. Sigyn gasped, fear tearing through her, and in that moment, staring at the wave of drones descending on their party, she knew she wouldn't see the next sunrise. She hefted her spear.

She never had the chance to fire. A whirlwind and peal of thunder ripped through the shredded cacophony of battle, and Thor landed between the oncoming forces and their tiny party. With a bellow he swung his hammer and sent three drones spinning back into those that followed.

"Go!" he shouted. "I'll hold them here!"

Sigyn didn't need to be told twice. Picking up the hem of her skirts she ran through the narrow channel the Crown-Prince had opened for them, and clearing her mind, she waved her spear. Billows of mist poured from the tip, shrouding the entire bridge to mask their way. Sigyn stumbled, shocked at the drain on her energy, but caught herself and pushed forward. Droplets of water clung to her skin, dampening her gown and dragging down her hair. Behind her, she could hear the ragged breath of the guards supporting Loki, and beyond that the sounds of Thor thrashing the Chitauri.

They emerged from the mist into Valaskjálf, trailing clinging tendrils of moisture as they went. The throne room was eerily calm, littered with the fallen bodies of ás and drone alike. Torn pennants rippled from charred rafters. Sigyn picked her way across the battleground, leading the trio behind her.

The throne itself was untouched, its smiling bow glittering gold in the half light, and the corridor behind was likewise empty. Loki roused himself, putting down his heels to slow the guards' pace, and craned his neck to see down the hall. Sigyn followed his gaze.

"Ho, there!" a guard called, stepping into the light of the fire pit, spear leveled. He pulled back when he saw the company. "Is the battle done, then?" he asked, and Sigyn saw how young he was.

"No," she replied. "But the end is close." A chorus of cheers from the Causeway punctuated her words.

The guard stared at her, his gaze flickering to the guards still supporting Loki and to Loki himself. The prince pulled himself to his feet, pushing aside hands that sought to steady him as he wobbled. He brushed down his gaping, bloodied shirt, and even in through the panic and fear Sigyn couldn't stifle a wry smile at his persistent vanity. Loki pointed down the corridor, to the entrance to the catacombs beyond.

The guard straightened to attention. "The Vault is secure," he announced.

Loki sagged in relief, and he couldn't quite catch himself before his knees buckled underneath him.

"Hup, we got you," the left guard said, catching Loki's weight. "Let's get you to the healing wing, Highness."

Sigyn thought it indicative of Loki's exhaustion that he didn't fight it, merely nodded. Once more she led the way, angling through the swaying curtains to the side halls tucked behind.

Healers and servants scurried to and fro, and the only Chitauri she saw were the dead piled against the walls. She sighed in relief. It was over. They were safe. She turned to smile at Loki and the guardsmen bearing him, but a sound reached her ears then, and she cut herself off to listen. The smile dropped from her face.

In the distance, slicing through the burgeoning sounds of celebration outside, came the low, mournful wail of a ram's horn, lost and foreboding.

Heimdall's horn.

Asgard was invaded.


	18. Chapter 18

Loki dreamed. It was a lucid dream, a half-aware dream. He knew he was between two guards, stumbling through the halls—but his mind was not with them. A cold wind blew in his face, chilling and refreshing in equal measure, and in the darkened depths before him he heard whispers, faint and echoing, and in no language he knew.

His body stumbled again, and Loki felt himself fall. A horn sounded in the distance. He expected the floor to rise to meet him, expected the sharp wash of pain to bring him awake, but instead he continued to fall into the black, tumbling downward into that cold, rushing wind. His chest tightened in fear, and he reached for any handhold, but his fingers scrabbled against the empty air.

The longer he fell, however, the slower his progress seemed to become, until, to his wonder, he was floating downward as soft as a new-fallen leaf. He pried his eyes open (he wondered when he had shut them), and he found he was not in the dark, but floating through a tangle of roots, the largest more vast than he could compass and stretching farther than he could fathom, and the smallest finer than a strand of his own hair. All around him they coiled, knotting and twisting in a bewildering chaos the likes of which he could never possibly recreate, merely strive for.

He floated, and ahead he saw a shimmer, as of light reflecting from the surface of water. Curious, he willed himself closer. He sank through the net of roots, eyes focused on the light.

It resolved itself into a pool of water, covered in a layer of white scum and nestled at the confluence of three mighty taproots, each standing three times as tall from the earth as Loki himself before humping up to plunge downwards into the loam. He made to press closer, curious to see the pool, eager to return his feet to the safety of solid ground, but just before he did something caught against his limbs. He looked around, and found himself caught in a tremendous, knotted web. Looking closer, he saw that each strand was thick around as his littlest finger. He yanked against them but they held, and the more he struggled the tighter they pulled him into the snare.

"One cannot escape one's fate, Niðingr." Loki flushed at the slur, and craning his neck, searched for the speaker. A woman stepped into view from behind a curtain of trailing moss. "The more one struggles, the greater the pain will be when it exerts its will."

Loki stared at her, confused, and she gazed placidly back at him before stepping up to the pool. Her hair hung loose and straight where it spilled over her shoulders. She dipped her hands into the water, ignoring the mud that clung to her fingers, and cupped out a handful to pour on the root closest to her. She massaged the bark where the water soaked in.

"Urðr," Loki croaked, surprising himself with his own voice.

"Yes." She stood and met his gaze, and he saw that her eyes were impossibly deep wells, seeing through the universe and all the dimensions at once. Urðarbrunnr was not the pool of water, he realized.

A tremor through the web caught Loki's attention, and he turned to look. A massive spider sat hunched on the far edge, its limbs bent and gnarled under its great weight. Strings of venom dripped from its chelicerae. Loki started; he had no great fear of spiders, but this was large enough to shock even the hardiest soul.

"Your fears follow you, Seed-of-Laufey," Urðr said, staring at the spider. "You fear to fall; know that if you fear too greatly you will certainly fall." She glanced downward, and Loki followed her gaze. Below him was Nothing. An endless drop, a soundless echo, a sightless vista. Ginnungagap. Void, in a way the void beyond Asgard could never be. His gorge rose, and he clamped onto the web with all his strength. His struggles drew the attention of the spider, and it raised a foot, laying it down on the web as though testing its strength.

"Please," he whispered.

Urðr's gaze was dispassionate. "You come to me, Odin's Foundling. You force your presence upon my repose and that of my sisters. This is not your domain, nor is it for your eyes-and yet you see. Look, then, on your folly."

She swept her hand over the pool of water, and it stilled to glass-like perfection. Scenes of his childhood reflected back to him, and he saw himself tussling with Thor, laughing with Thor, braiding together wildflowers and crowning Thor with a riot of color. His brother had been a gracious liege, that day. "Brother-by-Choice, you are foolish. Thor gives love openly and greatly, and seeks humble reunion—yet you cast him aside from injured pride.

"Know you are small."

She waved her hand again, and he saw the accomplishments of his youth. He saw his frenetic absorption of magical knowledge, the inventions, the immense breeding program that had produced the greatest horse Asgard had yet seen. "Sleipnir's Sire, do you not see the Allfather still prefers your creation over all other steeds? Do you not remember, Clever Fingers, your mother's pride with each childish token? She keeps them still, in a cabinet in her chambers.

"Know you are willfully blind."

Her arm swept over the water a third time, and Loki saw Sigyn's face. "Sigyn Njallsdóttir risks much to be by your side. What do you risk, Traitor-Prince?

"Know you are cowardly."

Loki was trembling, and every tremor lured the spider closer. He bowed his head before the Norn. Her fingers were cool as she forced his chin up. Her eyes were breathtaking in their lack of concern. "There is a fork in your path, He-Who-Lies-Even-Unto-Himself." Her voice was as heavy as the weight of responsibility. "One path leads to endless warfare and the despair of your people. The other leads also to destruction and sorrow, for that is unavoidable, but so, too, does this path bear hope. The crux of the fork is this: does Loki of Asgard face his fears, or does he die a cold death in bed, denied the warmth of Valhalla?"

He stared into her eyes, deep and dark and depthless, and he saw visions in them as he had seen in the pool—but this time he watched them play out on the mirror of his soul. Images of Glaðsheimr toppling. Images of the Bifröst roaring once more into the black. Images of Sigyn being raped in front of him, her deadened eyes locked on his, and he gave an involuntary sob. Images of himself clinging to his mother, images of a tiny black flower sheltered in the ice. Images of Thor, bent and broken, baring his neck to the executioner. Loki's heart wrenched. Images of two young boys, twins, each with mad, curly hair and snapping green eyes, racing down the palace halls. Images of Loki standing on the broken end of Bifröst while the Guardian looked on.

Urðr let go of his face. She returned to the spring and resumed watering the roots about her as though Loki no longer existed. Loki hung his head, horrified, and wept.

A tremor on the web drew his attention, and Loki looked to the spider. It was closer, almost halfway along the web. He looked down, at the yawning Void beneath him. Of the two, the spider was the more attractive option. He had no great fear of insects, but the stomach-pulling, breath-stealing arc of free-fall—that choked in his throat.

The spider hauled itself closer. Loki had no weapon, nor could he so much as move to defend himself from it. Its jaws clacked, and venom slipped down to soak in its coarse fur. Loki's stomach churned, and he looked down.

Urðr's words returned to him. _Know that if you fear too greatly you will certainly fall. _Was it a riddle? Most sagas told of riddles that the hero had to puzzle out before he could move forward. Loki wasn't sure whether to laugh through his tears at the irony. Him, a hero. He was petty. Blind. A coward. He was no hero, there was no riddle here; it was simple choice. Did he prefer to die upon the teeth of the fears that spun him close? Or did he prefer to face them, and be free from the beasts in his mind?

He looked to the spider, and with a cry he tore his arms free from their snare.

He dropped like a stone. The weird light of Urðr's domain faded fast into the swallowing black, and Loki once more found himself alone and cold and filled with regret. This time, though, his heart was lighter.

He awoke with a gasp, as a drowning man might crest the surface of a lake to take his first breath of life-giving air. His panic and terror shredded from his mind in the clean white light, and in their wake he thought he heard the whisper of a woman's voice saying, _You have crossed but the first obstacle, Odinson. Can you make the same choice in the light of day?_

He shook his head, confused, and a frantic babble of voices met his ears. A small hand pressed to his forehead.

"Steady on!"

"Loki, are you alright?"

"Get fluids in here, he must be dehydrated—"

"—need an analysis of the residue, it's everywhere—"

"Enough."

That last voice cracked through the chatter, and Loki opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was Sigyn, bending over him, and he stared at her blankly. Where was he? He looked around, and the sterile confines of the healing wing swam into view. Behind Sigyn stood the spare frame of Lady Eir, the chief healer. Loki blinked.

"How are you feeling, Highness?"

He answered without thinking. "Like the underside of an old boot, thank you." His eyes widened, and he ran his tongue over the inside of his lips. They were smooth but for raised, stinging scars. Glancing to Sigyn, he raised a hand to his mouth. The vartari was gone, and his fingers brushed only skin. He sucked in a ragged breath, then covered his mouth with both hands as he opened as wide as he could. The joint cracked in protest. Beside him, Sigyn stifled a giggle.

"The Allfather decreed your punishment was sufficient," Lady Eir said. "It was well done, too, for we would have had to remove the sutures anyway."

Loki looked up from wiggling his jaw back and forth and stared at the healer. "Why?" His lips felt rubbery, stiff from disuse, and his mouth tasted like things best not discussed.

"Why? We might have needed to induce vomiting, you idiot boy. As for the Allfather, that is something you will have to ask him."

A thought struck Loki at that moment, and he reached inward for his magic. There was no sickening roil, no wrenching twist. It leapt to him with the eager joy of a puppy to its master, and goosebumps trailed over Loki's skin as he felt it fill him. "He returned my magic," he croaked. It was weak, barely enough to light a candle, but it was _there_.

Lady Eir sniffed. "Indeed. I have never held with magical binding, the body never responds well to having its energies restrained."

Loki ignored the healer, reflexively stroking his magic like a miser counting his coins, and turned to Sigyn. She was sitting quietly by his side, mindful of the healers, and she was staring at him, her hands knotted together in her lap. Her hair was more wayward than usual, curling out of her braid in a messy, sooty halo.

He remembered the way he had seen her, only hours earlier; the lines of her face had been highlighted by the drug in his system, their symmetry and underlying bone structure traced through with her energy, and the whole had been glorious. She had been glorious. He could still see a faint outline of it even now, though it was much faded. The scar on her lip played into the whole, marring the perfection of her face just enough to keep it grounded.

She blinked, inhaling, and Loki realized the healer had been talking. "Can I go?" he asked, cutting Eir off.

She pulled short, and glared at him. Loki stared back. Lady Eir was no mean enemy, but she put up with a great deal before deciding she didn't like you. Loki had, thus far, managed to stay more or less in her good graces. She snorted. "That would depend on you, Prince. You were the one who ingested a foreign entheogen; do _you_ feel capable of leaving?"

Loki didn't bother to respond, choosing instead to push himself upright. He was lying on one of the beds in the common ward, he saw, one of those closest to the healers' station. They hadn't even bothered to crack the sheets, merely laid him across the top of them. His clothes were as intact as they had been after the battle, and even the remnant smears of his spell dotted his skin. He must look a fright. Sigyn handed him a glass of water, and he accepted it gratefully, washing away the foul taste in his mouth.

He was never eating peyote again.

"The Chitauri?" he asked, handing the glass back, and the guard hovering at the end of the bed answered.

"They fell apart after you took out the third leviathan," he said, tone respectful and eyes burning with awe. Loki squinted at him. He was not one of the usual guards, and was wearing the armor of the city division rather than the palace division. "The Crown-Prince is supervising the parties responsible for hunting down the last of them. But..." He trailed off.

"It was a ruse," Sigyn finished softly. "Heimdall sounded his horn as soon as the battle was over. They used the attack on the City to divert attention from their invasion force."

The bottom fell out from under him, and Loki swore he was falling once more. "What? Where?"

"Our southernmost promontory," the guard replied.

"Casualties?"

Lady Eir answered. "Over a hundred and thirty from the City alone, though they're still coming in. Most of the refugees got to Æðey safely, there were few civilian deaths, but the snipers on the skiffs took their toll. As for the south... We don't know, yet."

Loki sagged sideways into the pillows. Never in the entire, long history of the Æsir had Asgard been invaded—until now, and he, Loki Silvertongue, was to blame. Guilt threatened around the edges of his mind and he smashed it back, unwilling to accept it.

"A page came," Sigyn said. "Before you woke up. The Allfather requested your presence in the War Room."

"What, so he can hurl accusations at me?" Loki muttered.

The three clustered about him exchanged glances. "I'm sure that's not it, Loki," Sigyn said.

Loki sighed, then nodded and pushed himself back up. Colors swirled together, and he blinked them back. Gentle hands pressed against his back and arm, steadying him. They were small; Sigyn's, then. He didn't brush them off.

Leaning against her as subtly as he could, he made his way down the ward. Beds were filled with injured soldiers, and more lined the walls and warmed chairs. The smell of antiseptic couldn't cover the reek of burnt fibers and flesh, or of blood and sweat. Loki swallowed and pushed on. The guard followed. Loki let him. He, at least, followed out of some modicum of loyalty.

The corridor beyond was organized chaos. Stretchers lined the walls, each with a body on it and a rune drawn on his forehead. Healers and novices bobbed to and fro, dispensing water and medicines and occasionally crumbling a healing stone over a gaping wound. Some unlucky few had their pain deadened, their wounds cleaned and tended, and their families and a skald summoned to sing them to Valhalla. Loki's eyes skittered away from these.

The guilt he refused to acknowledge clenched around his stomach. He gripped Sigyn's hand in his, and she squeezed back, and he staggered through the triage lines to the quieter halls beyond.

He collapsed before he could make it past the formal banquet hall, breathing like he had sprinted down the Causeway and his limbs trembling with exertion. Sigyn and the guard eased him down to the floor. He knocked his head against the wall in frustration.

Sigyn knelt beside him and pulled out a small apple from her pocket. Its skin flashed gold in the dim light. Loki blinked.

"Now where did you get that?" he asked, amused.

"From a healer," Sigyn answered, giving it to him. "I asked nicely."

Loki snorted, rolling the apple in his palm. It was cool against his skin. He raised it to his mouth, opened his lips, and sank his teeth into the crisp flesh.

He groaned. Idunn's apples had always been the form and truth of all apples condensed into a single fruit, and it seemed to Loki that he had never truly tasted any apple until that one, that day. It was the blessing of food combined with the sheer physical pleasure of chewing and swallowing, of feeling something on his tongue and tasting it, that sent shivers trailing down his spine. His head swam with the surge of energy and vitality the apple imparted.

He ate everything, even the core, and sucked the juice off his fingers when he was done.

"Let's go," he said, pushing himself to his feet and straightening his shirt. He looked down at himself. "Oh, this will never do." He reached in to that miniscule tendril of magic and swept it over himself. The crusted, flaking paste vanished, the wrinkles and stains in his clothes disappeared. He ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it down. He looked to Sigyn; she stepped forward to lace up his shirt, then nodded in approval.

The guard glanced between them, but Loki ignored him. Appearance was as much a weapon as any other, both to bolster the self and to demoralize the enemy, and any soldier who failed to understand that was a foolish one. He conjured his surcoat and boots, longing for his armor but not daring to conjure that, too, and strode down the hall. Sigyn and the guard followed by his side.

The War Room was behind the Hall of the Noble Dead, in the south wing of the palace. It, and the adjacent barracks, housed the tactical might of Asgard. Leaving Sigyn and the guard outside, Loki flung open the doors and made his entrance.

"Ah, you have arrived," was Odin's reply. Immediately Loki felt childish for his display, and girded himself with anger. He sketched a derisive bow.

"Allfather," he said. Odin's goðar, arrayed around topographical display, exchanged glances.

"Brother, you are well!" Thor stepped up, his face split open on a massive smile, and clapped a massive hand on Loki's shoulder. Loki staggered, and cursed his weakness. He let Thor's hand rest somewhat longer before pushing it off, however.

"I am fine. What did I miss?"

Thor's face grew grim. "The Chitauri have taken Mjóifjörður and Eyrarbakki, and blockaded the Gléra north of the delta. That would not be so bad, but they are encamped farther inland than our ships can fly. They were prepared for our defenses."

Loki refused to hang his head. What was done was done, and no one at this table could possibly have done differently in his position. He stared down Goði Bölverkr, daring him to speak.

He did, the fool. "They chose precisely the weakest point in our defenses. Any ideas how that might have been, Kinslayer?"

"Surely it was you, great one, for you would sing like a bird to any wandering ear who had coin to fill your mead-horn." Loki savored the intake of breath from around the table.

"That's enough," Odin said mildly. "We will have time to bicker after this crisis is dealt with. Heimdall. What can you see of them?"

Loki's gaze jerked to the Gatekeeper, heretofore unnoticed, where he stood in the corner. His head looked strangely small, without his helmet. The curved guard of his sword jutted from over his shoulder. "Their movements are chaotic, Allfather," he said. "Nor do their divisions follow any sense of order. I can make no sense of them, nor make count, for they are constantly shifting. The most I can say is there are sixty leviathans."

Odin turned to Loki. "You have had the closest contact with them. What information can you give on the movement of their troops?"

Loki bristled at his father's presumption, but he answered anyway. "I knew them to be a highly organized force. This chaos you describe is unknown to me." His eyes flickered to Odin's ravens, perched on the back of his empty chair, and Heimdall. His gaze skittered from the other's golden stare. "It is possible they know the far reach of our sight."

Odin nodded, looking suddenly weary in the lamplight. Loki wondered when he was due for another Sleep. Maybe they would be so fortunate as to have him collapse mid-crisis once more.

"If I might be so bold," Loki said, cultivating disinterest like a gardener breeds roses, "Why doesn't the Allfather use his Odin Force to remove this stain upon our realm? Surely he has not grown so old as to lose his mightiest weapon."

Furious murmurs once more slipped through the room, and this time Thor answered. "Father was forced to expend the Odin Force summoning dark matter to send me to Midgard," he said. "It has not yet replenished itself."

"Ah. And of course the tesseract is caught in powering the Bifröst research." Loki stepped up to the table, at the map of Asgard rising from it. There, the City, perched on the border of sea and land. Shining, even in the artificial, absent sun of the model. And there, at the other end of the continent, a stain of red indicating lands held by the Chitauri. Loki swallowed, but masked his guilt. He looked to Odin. "Not that I'm not... honored, but why _do_ you want me, here?"

Odin looked at him, and despite the lack of an eye Loki felt his gaze keenly. "I would have your service," he said. "Neither the Ravens nor Heimdall can see the enemy's movements, nor have our scouts succeeded in infiltrating their networks. You, however, might have that power."

Loki couldn't stop the way the blood drained from his face. "You would have me walk into their encampment, bold as day, and—what? Ask politely for their plan of attack?"

"Not quite so boldly as that."

Loki sputtered. "They would as soon kill me as tell me anything."

The Allfather swept his hand through the rendering of a mountain, toying with the energies that made it. "This is true. But you are no longer as helpless as you were."

Realization flooded through Loki's veins, thick and bitter. "Oh, I see," he said. "It wasn't any deed of my own that convinced you I was worthy of the right to use _my own magic_, it was just an effort to appease me into acting as your cat's paw!"

"Loki, that is enough," Thor said. "Father returned your magic because he hoped you would see defending Asgard a nobler purpose than spiting your family."

"That's easy enough for the Mighty _Thor_ to say, he hasn't got a price on his head!"

Thor scowled, crossing his arms. "My head would be just as forfeit as yours, walking into that camp, and I would be dead twice as fast, for I don't have the leverage you do. Or your silver tongue."

Loki swallowed his retort and turned to Odin. "I assume I will retain my magic only on the condition that I cooperate?"

Odin's face didn't change a whit, but his eye seemed suddenly sad. "No, Loki," he said. "You will keep your magic, for it is yours and should not have been taken from you. But I would ask that you consider my proposal."

Loki narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but he could see no deception in his father's face. That did not mean it wasn't there, however, and Loki's skin fair prickled with the charge of his distrust.

"You would let him keep his magic, after Ancients only know what he tried to pull tonight?" Bölverkr, again. "His guards were brought drugged to the healing wing. That means he ran amok through the palace, wreaking devilry we can't even begin to fathom." Loki bared his teeth at the man, but could say nothing without condemning himself.

"I was with my brother last night," Thor cut in, and Loki jerked his head to stare at him. "When I wasn't, the Lady Sigyn was with him. We will vouch for him. There was no devilry."

Bölverkr's eyes narrowed. "I distinctly recall his taking down a leviathan with magic he shouldn't have had."

Thor stood resolute. "Would you not take up a sword, if someone threatened your life?"

"It was counter to the Allfather's command!"

The Allfather cut in. "A command I have now rescinded. The events of the past night may remain just that: past. Loki." He turned to where Loki stood, dumfounded. "I ask once more. Will you assist us?"

The room thrummed with tension, all eyes focused on him. Loki felt it keenly, and found he hated it. He stared down at the map, mind racing. Unbidden, Urðr's voice rose to him. _Does Loki of Asgard face his fears, or does he die a cold death in bed, denied the warmth of Valhalla?_ "Give me a day to consider your proposal," he said, and his heart beat with fear of the fall.

Odin inclined his head. "So be it."

Loki glanced at Thor, then left the War Room. He had some thinking to do.

But first, he needed to rest. He could feel the weariness tugging at him, now that the adrenaline of meeting with his father's council had faded. He looked about; Sigyn rose from the settee on which she was perched.

"I sent the guard home," she said. "He needed to be with his family, not trailing after us."

"Good," Loki replied, and took her hand.

She squeezed his gently. "How did it go?"

Loki shook his head. "Later. Now, I just need to sleep."

"Your rooms or mine?" Sigyn asked, and a mischievous grin crept across her patrician features at his look of surprise. "I'm not letting you out of my sight, Loki Odinson, because every time I do you get yourself into worse and worse trouble."

Loki sighed. "Your rooms," he said. "I don't... sleep very well, in mine."

Sigyn nodded. "Alright. Mine it is." She led him by the hand through the quieting halls of Glaðsheimr, up the staircase to the Third Tier and to her apartments. She let them in, speaking softly to the servant who came to greet her, and brought him into her room.

Loki wished he could have had looked about, examined Sigyn's private world more closely, but he barely had the presence of mind to divest himself of his clothes before tumbling into her bed.

He was asleep before his head touched the pillow.


	19. Chapter 19

Sigyn didn't sleep, instead curling herself into the chair by the bed to watch Loki. How close her idle imaginings had come to this reality, and yet how far—for indeed she had pictured Loki in her bed, but no dream she conjured could have guessed the gentle whistle he made when he exhaled. She stifled her giggle against her knee and resisted the urge to reach out and trace his cheekbones.

He looked less worn, asleep. The creases under his eyes lessened, and his hair grew softer as the oils in it lost their grip.

Sigyn's thoughts slid to those she had had no more than hours earlier, of ice and fear and shame. He was still wounded, there was no doubt of that, but Loki was different, somehow, from the man who had choked her in the Hall of Noble Dead. Perhaps he had seen something, in his visions. Perhaps it was the return of his voice and his magic. Either way, he was calmer, more grounded—more the way he had been before the Chitauri arrived, but less the sharpness.

She stepped out near midday, carefully closing the door behind her, and requested of Ane a meal, something light, that would keep despite temperature. Ane nodded. "For two?" she asked.

"Please," Sigyn answered, and slipped back inside. Fifteen minutes later came a knock on the door and Ane entered, burdened with a tray of morsels and fruit. She set it down on the table in the sitting area and glanced to the prince in Sigyn's bed. Sigyn thanked her, and Ane curtseyed and left, and Sigyn smiled wryly as she lifted the lid from the tureen to see spell-chilled soup within. It would be all over the palace by the time Loki woke, that he had slept in her bed but not with her.

He rolled over, shifting into a fetal position, his brow creasing into a worried frown. His eyes roved furiously beneath his lids and he trembled despite the chains of sleep. A small whimper escaped his newly freed lips, and Sigyn leaned forward, reaching a hand to nudge him awake—but Thor's words reminded her, and she pulled back, biting her lip in sympathy as he rode through his nightmare.

It passed, and his brow smoothed.

She wondered what had happened in the meeting. He had been preoccupied when he had emerged, somewhat cowed and distinctly unsettled. The walk to her rooms had been a quiet one, as though he had been working some massive dilemma through that great brain of his.

Sigyn had her own dilemma, and she picked it apart as she watched Loki sleep.

OOO

When Loki woke it was to the clear light of early afternoon. The bed was unfamiliar; the hangings were red, brown and gold rather than his own forest green, and the bedspread a humble patchwork quilt. He frowned, muddled by the lingering fog of sleep, before he remembered.

Sigyn's room.

He turned his head, and she was there, curled in a chair before a table laden with food. She was reading a book of children's tales, utterly engrossed, and nibbling on a rolled slice of meat; he lay quiet, watching her. After a time her eyes flicked up from the page. They widened when she saw him watching, but she didn't break the gaze.

"You're awake," she said.

Loki pushed himself up to lean back against the pillows. "Yes."

Sigyn set the book aside. "I had some food brought in, if you're hungry."

Loki didn't reply, merely watched her. She sat awkwardly under his gaze, her hands fluttering in her lap. She was nervous, he realized. He considered. This was her sanctuary; she wanted him to like it.

He looked about. The furnishings were simple, with clean, elegant lines. One wall held the portrait of a Ljósálfar warrior maiden; the opposite a series of pressed flowers. It was much like Sigyn, from what he could tell: humble, graceful, and suffused with earthy tones.

He slipped from the bed, trailing blankets, and stepped to her. He urged her up from her seat. She went, gazing up at him, and Loki gazed back down at her.

She had washed her face at some point, and changed clothes. Gone were all signs of the battle. In their place was golden skin and glowing cheeks, and her large, hazel eyes, hesitant and anticipatory in turn. Loki licked his lips, and she took a small breath. He bent down and kissed her.

It was as sweet as Idunn's apple. The press of her lips against his own, their first real touch since the vartari's removal, was fire, and when she parted them, and he slipped his tongue in to touch hers, that was bliss. She smelled of warm sun and the musk of desert plants, and she tasted of her lunch. Loki broke away to smile against her cheek. Sigyn made a displeased noise and chased after him.

They stood there, in a pool of afternoon sunlight, and the kiss deepened, growing more needy the more they tasted. Sigyn pressed against him, the soft swell of her breast crushed to his chest, and Loki felt his body respond to hers. He took a breath and reached for the ties on her dress.

A soft knock startled them both. Turning around, Loki saw a servingwoman step inside. He scowled at her, but she kept her eyes downcast and persisted in the interruption.

"A message arrived from the Queen, m'lord." She glanced to his face, and opted to set it on the table by the door.

"Thank you Ane," Sigyn said, clearing her throat. Ane curtseyed and left, and Sigyn stepped back, smoothing her hair. Loki cursed his mother and the servant, and the world at large. He sighed, and went to pick up the card.

It was handwritten, as was his mother's wont, and sealed with an archaic wax stamp embossed with a spinning wheel. Loki broke it with a deft twist and read the script within. It was an invitation to meet with her in her private chambers after the evening meal. He pursed his lips.

"You don't seem surprised she knew you were here," Sigyn ventured.

Loki shook his head absently. "My mother has ways of knowing things. It was inconvenient when I was young." He handed the note to Sigyn. She read it, then handed it back with a sharp nod.

"Good. There is time."

Loki took the letter and tucked it away. "Time for what?"

"I wanted to show you something," she said, and contrary to her previous decided manner she sounded tentative.

Curiosity piqued, he took the bait. "What sort of something?"

"Well, it's more of a place. I thought you might like to see it."

Loki considered. Staying here, with Sigyn, until the meeting with his mother, or seeing... whatever it was she wanted to show him.

Sigyn noticed his reticence. "We don't have to," she said. "It's just, I don't know how long the Reserve will last, what with the invasion. I had hoped we could see it at least once more."

A mixture of guilt and obligation slunk through Loki, and he nodded. "Alright. Let me just change, first." He waved his hands, putting on a little extra show just for fun, and fresh clothes shifted from the dimensions to drape over him. He ignored how the tunic he chose flattered the line of his shoulders, or how his trousers clung to his thighs and backside. It was all under his surcoat, anyway.

He peered into the closest mirror to tend his hair, and he froze.

The vartari was gone, but its presence was not forgotten. A double row of pink scars outlined his lips, lurid against his pale skin, and they pulled his mouth into a crooked line. He covered his mouth with a hand and looked away. The cicatrices pressed up against his fingers. He rubbed at them, half-hoping it would make them disappear.

"Loki?" Sigyn's voice was soft in the sudden hush of her rooms, and he jerked his hand away. He couldn't look at her.

"Loki, what is it?"

He shook his head, ashamed.

"Loki, I can't help if you don't tell me what's wrong."

Loki jerked his head up, glancing at her before checking he had last minute supplies bundled away in a dimensional pocket. "Nothing is wrong," he said, but his voice sounded strained.

Sigyn folded her arms and considered him. "It's the scars, isn't it," she said, and when he looked up her expression was equal parts amused, exasperated and compassionate.

He opened his mouth, but no words would come. She stepped in, laying a hand on his breast, right over his heart. "I didn't see the thread when it was in, and I don't see it now that it is out," she said. "It would be hypocritical of me."

Loki's eyes caught on her own scar, and he closed his eyes. _Know you are small_.

Small hands reached up to cup his neck, and drew him down. Her lips pressed against his, soft and forgiving, and he shivered in mingled awe and disgust. She pulled back, and raised a hand and traced along his lips, top then bottom, and sealed it with a chaste kiss. Loki's heart clenched in his chest.

How he loved this woman.

"We should—we should go," he said, loath to leave her embrace but keen to cover his indiscretion.

Sigyn grunted into his chest. "I almost don't want to, now," she said. "It's quite a long walk."

The corner of Loki's (ruined) mouth quirked up, and he leaned down to whisper in her ear, "I think I can help with that. Hold tight, and close your eyes." With a twist of magic he drew down the shadows and slipped them sideways through the In Between.

Sigyn gasped, and her arms locked tight about him. Loki had never transported another person before, and the additional mass, light as it might have been, threatened to drag them back into reality. Disinclined to getting them caught in a wall, he focused his will to a fine edge and sliced through the resistance.

It was a mercifully short jump, and he sighed in relief when they slipped back into Asgard. They had landed beneath the grove of lover trees in the Reserve, at the bridge landing. Sigyn shook her head, blinking. "Is it usually so... tight?" she asked.

"No. I've never transported anyone else, before, however."

"Good to know I'm your guinea pig. It's a Midgardian animal," she elaborated at his puzzled look. "Commonly used for testing purposes."

"Ah. How do you learn things like this?"

Sigyn poked him in the side. "Who was it that read my book? And what was that book about? Oh, of course, comparative analyses of technological schema across the realms. How foolish of me, I had almost forgot."

Loki nodded sagely. "Yes, indeed, how foolish of you to have forgotten the subject of your own book."

"Watch your words, Prince, or I shall push you over this cliff."

"A bold claim, but I think you won't." He stepped up to her, pressed close to her, loomed over her. She had to tilt her head back to maintain his gaze.

"And why do you think that?" Sigyn asked, breathless.

Loki lowered her lips to her ear. "Because you're wearing my colors." He stepped away with a smirk, and when she looked down at herself he couldn't stop the way it widened to a full grin. There wasn't any use in protesting. Her surcoat, ever-present and fraying along the hems, was unapologetically green, and her dress was a sunny yellow.

She groaned, then pointed a finger. "Yes, well don't you think I didn't notice you're wearing _those_ trousers, so you're right there with me!"

Loki's inner, prideful half preened like a cat, and he pressed an innocent hand to his chest. "Me? How good of _you_ to notice."

"I—but—there's nothing to see!" she sputtered. "It's all covered!"

"And yet you knew which trousers they were," Loki said, backing along the trail before turning about to face forward. "Point to me."

Behind him, Sigyn growled. "So be it! But you're going the wrong way."

Loki stopped in his tracks and looked around. He knew he was on the trail toward the Midgardian gardens, he recognized that wasp nest and that particular ask and embla. "We're not going to Midgard?" he asked, turning back to Sigyn.

She looked nervous. "No, I had thought we might see something different."

Now why was she twisting her skirts in her fingers? Was she truly so worried he wouldn't like it? "Then where?"

"It's a surprise," she said. "I can't tell you, because then it wouldn't be a surprise, anymore." She smiled, then turned and started down a different path, one that led northward instead of curving around to the south.

Humoring her, Loki caught up and fell in beside her. He leaned down. "I could make you tell me."

"You won't. You're curious, and you're clever enough to realize I'll never tell if you resort to brute force."

Memories of moonlight and madness pressed forward, and Loki beat them back. "I don't have to use force," he said, and reached out to twine a loose curl of her hair about his fingers. "There are ways, and there are ways."

Sigyn was having none of it, however, and she marched along as though he had commented on the weather. "You'll see when we get there, Highness, and I'll not utter a peep until then."

She kept true to her word, and despite Loki's efforts her lips stayed sealed. He reflected on the irony.

The path led them to the north side of the fjorðholmr, toward a cluster of low-lying buildings that glimmered in the lowering sunlight. Sigyn bore to the right when the path divided, and soon they were descending yet another set of stairs down the sheer side of the cliff. The fjord was narrower on this side, Loki noted. He fancied he might be able to jump from one side to the other unaided. Mosses and stubborn lichens clung to the stone, mist rose even to this great height from the tattered surf below, and shadows clung to the walls. An insistent sea breeze, funneled in from the headlands, whipped past.

When they reached their destination, there were no great terraces, merely a spare balcony with a row of doors, each cast from sturdy steel and painted with a number. Realization came swiftly. "These are the coolhouses," Loki said, peering down the row. He had been here, once, as a child, as part of his general education. The memories were dim, but he recalled the coolhouses had been specially engineered to hold the flora of worlds far colder than Asgard could accommodate on its own. Samplings from Niflheimr, the southern tundras of Álfheimr, and others were cultivated under precise climatic controls.

"Yes," Sigyn replied. "We're for Coolhouse Four." She strode down the row and paused at the fourth door. She held it open for him when he caught up, and Loki found himself in a narrow entry hall, darker and noticeably colder than than the warm, summer air beyond. Parkas of various sizes lined the walls. Following Sigyn's lead, Loki plucked one from its hook and shrugged it on, and she nodded toward a second door before preceding him through. The door closed behind them with a pneumatic hiss.

Two gnarled trees, bark the silver of Sigyn's aspen and leaves a marvelous shade of navy, welcomed them in. Blue-black moss carpeted their roots, and clusters of tiny buds dripped from their branches like snowflakes caught mid-fall. Loki looked beyond, and a world of silvers and blues, of delicate black and harsh, glaring white, met his eyes. Over all he felt the intense cold of Jötunheimr. He sucked in a shocked breath, and the air lanced through his lungs.

He felt a tug on the front of his parka, and he looked down to see Sigyn, her hands fisted in the fabric. Her eyes were wide and imploring. "Don't go, yet," she said. "Please."

Loki scowled and pried her fingers from his clothes. He stood rigid in the doorway, glaring out at the icescape. The Jötnar had started all of this, by attacking Midgard. They had failed, and Asgard had whipped them like the dogs they were. It was their fault he wasn't enough for his father, their weakness that made him fall short of his brother. Why couldn't Sigyn see that? Why would she bring him _here_, knowing what he was?

Once more she spoke. "Please, Loki." She was biting her lip, and her fingers, freed from his parka, had knotted in her own.

"Why?" he hissed.

Her cheeks pinked. "I had thought... I wanted to show you the beauty of your—of Jötunheimr." She looked away. "I am sorry. We can go."

"No," Loki spat. "You brought me here, make your case. Convince me the Jötunns aren't the monsters we cruelly mistake them to be."

She winced, unable to meet his eyes, but said nothing, and led the way into the coolhouse. Her shoulders were taut beneath the layers of clothing.

He followed, and they once more found themselves on a narrow trail. Loki glared at Sigyn's back, determined not to see anything, but the farther they went the less he could resist. It was morbid curiosity that drew his eyes to the side. What manner of tortured plants would survive the wastes?

What he saw he did not expect. True, the flora was unlike that of Asgard, or even vaguely familiar like it was on Midgard—but it was anything but tortured. Massive fans like periwinkle-and-white stands of coral lined the path, and there stood a thicket of shrubs disguised as crystalline prisms, clear and refracting rainbows but which flexed and bobbed as they brushed past. More conventional plants grew, as well, from an entire copse of the trees Loki had passed by at the door, gnarled together until their foliage was a dense mat, to a small ice field dotted with white-speckled black flowers.

Sigyn stopped before the field, gazing across the blooms pushing stubbornly through the cold. Loki stepped up beside her, close but not so close as to touch her. She said nothing for a time.

"People say Jötunheimr is a wasteland," she said. "They don't look close enough. One needs to get close, to see the beauty and softness hidden away from the cruel surface." She glanced to Loki. "These are stars-in-black-ice. They thrive in soil nothing else can grow in, and it's not unknown for entire plains of them to spring up after a harsh winter. Yes," she said, responding to Loki's sardonic eyebrow, "there is winter on Jötunheimr. It is short, but incredibly violent." She gestured back to the flowers. "This coolhouse is the only place outside of their homeworld they grow. They're notoriously fragile, for all their durability."

She turned to Loki. Her nose was red with the cold. "They are not the only precious thing from Jötunheimr sheltered on Asgard."

Loki shifted uncomfortably, and Sigyn reached for his hand, twining their fingers together. Her skin was chill against his. She sighed, and raised his hand and pressed it against her chest. "I love you, Loki Laufeyson. Despite everything you have done, despite the warnings of my family and friends, I love you. I love you for the glimpses of delicacy and beauty you show me through the cracks. I love that you can say more with one eyebrow than others can speak with a month in which to do it. I love it that you can't keep your hands out of my hair. I love you, and I hope that someday you find closure for those dark thoughts niggling away in the roots of that impressive mind of yours.

"You are my right arm, Loki, the breath in my lungs. I love you, regardless of your heritage." She kissed his hand, and returned it to his side. She stepped back, and her cheeks were pink from more than just the cold.

Loki stared blindly out at the ice and flowers. He brushed his thumb over the imprint of her lips on his skin, her words sending waves of heat and chill through him. Any other and he might doubt her honesty, but Sigyn had never been anything but purely candid toward him. Her depths were profound, but plumbing them was as simple as looking through the fathoms to the sea floor below. It wasn't in her to lie.

He looked to her, and she looked back, and Loki couldn't think of a single thing to say. What could he say? Sigyn saw him as, as some delicate and innocuous cutting, but he wasn't. Loki was a monster, in deed if not in form. He had killed, enslaved, threatened; he had plotted the downfall of his birth world. He looked at his hands. They were long-fingered and as pale as the rest of him, though pinking from the cold.

"I see you, Loki Laufeyson," Sigyn reiterated, as though sensing his confusion, and Loki shuddered at the sound of his patronym. "I see you, and still I choose to stand by you. I _choose_."

It was too much, what she offered. Loki considered leaving right then and there, running from her and this damned flower patch. What had he done, to earn her loyalty? His heart wrenched. He drew himself up, steeling himself to say the words that would push her from his side, and unbidden the Urðarbrunnr surfaced. _Know you are cowardly_.

He gasped and hung his head. There were so many choices coming down on his head he thought he would be crushed beneath them. He stepped back, and Sigyn reached out, her desperation and regret plain to see. Loki raised a hand. "I hear what you say, Sigyn, I just—I need some time to think." He pulled away, and the heartbreak in her eyes was breathtaking—but he turned anyway, and walked down the path.

It wasn't a rejection. He just needed to think.


	20. Chapter 20

Frigga was many things, Queen of Asgard the least of them. She was a wife and mother foremost, a seer second, and a political figure last of all. She saw her son was hurting, and it wasn't in her to pull away.

When Loki came to her chambers that night, he was paler than she had ever seen before, and he stood beside the door as though uncertain of his welcome. His arms he held close to himself, his eyes were guarded. He needed her, but he wasn't ready to lower his walls, yet.

Frigga had expected no less. Through carelessness, bad timing and a rare moment of ineptitude from her dear husband, they had all let Loki slip through the cracks. There was not time enough to rectify that error in full. She stepped forward and took her youngest's icy hands in her own.

"Sigyn has not left, little one," she said. "She waits for you still."

Loki ducked his head, hiding his expression, but his hands tightened around her own. The scars from the vartari twisted pink across his mouth. His smile had once been broad and straight, Frigga recalled; she wept that she would never see that happy smile again. It had been warped by hardship and pain into the twisted caricature of happiness, as Loki himself had, and he would bear the mark for the rest of his life.

"Come. I would show you something." She drew him to a clothespress, tucked into a corner. She opened one of the drawers and withdrew a viewing stone, a small crystal specially shaped to hold an image within. She gave it to Loki. He stared at the picture it showed him.

Odin, younger and less worn, staring down at an infant in his arms. He looked tired, the bags under his eyes were substantial, but his smile was warm with love. Loki looked up at Frigga.

"Yes, that is you. You were a fussy baby, I imagine it was too hot, here. I tried every trick I learned from Thor, but the only thing that calmed you down was when Odin picked you up. For nearly a week straight he carried you. He even took you into the War Room with him."

Loki stared at the picture, his expression unreadable, before putting the stone back in the drawer. As he did, his hand brushed against the blanket tucked behind. He went still, and looked to his mother before pulling it out. It was faded from age, but the ragged edges and stains were from love alone. He brought it to his face and smelled the fibers, but Frigga knew it smelled only of the wood that lined the drawers, and faint traces of her own perfume.

"I kept it," Frigga said, voice soft. "I kept all your most cherished childhood things, as I did for your brother."

Loki carefully folded the blanket and put it back in its drawer. He blinked; his eyes glistened in the lamplight, and his breathing was unsteady. He looked to her, and she could see the question in them without his needing to say it.

_Why?_

"Because I love you, son of my heart."

He shook his head and backed a step. It was not enough. Frigga wondered if, on some level, he hadn't remembered being abandoned as a newborn, if he didn't recall the sting of being judged inferior and unworthy of love. She had thought that might be why he had cleaved so strongly to Odin, the first one to reassure him otherwise.

How sad it was, that now he could not accept it. Frigga sighed, and stepped forward to cup his cheek, meeting his pale gaze firmly with her own. Possibilities flared out in her mind's eye at the touch, mingling with memories of those past. "Your father should have said this, but his Sleep came upon him too quickly, and I was too deep in my worry and grief to attend to my son. We brought you home with intent to wage peace with you as our fosterling. We kept you because we found we loved you, and you became as much our son as the one of our flesh. We never stopped dreaming of a future where the bond of brotherhood between two kings would end the bloodshed between their realms—but it was never as great as our hopes for you as an individual. Please, Loki. Forgive us for misleading you."

Loki's composure wavered, but still he stayed rigid to her touch. She heard a word echo through the past and into countless of his futures. _Monster_. She sucked in a breath and raised her other hand, cradling his face even as he stiffened. "You say you are a monster, Loki, but you are wrong. Your actions are the product of rage and grief, they are misguided and wicked, and they will cloud every interaction you will ever have. But you are not a monster, my son, because you can choose not to be.

"Know that whatever path you do choose, I will love you no less."

He remained unbent, his heart racing beneath Frigga's touch, until something in him seemed to snap and he sagged, burying his face in her shoulder. His arms came up to clutch at her dress, and tremors wracked his narrow shoulders. Frigga enfolded him in all the warmth she could muster. She was a goddess; she had much at her disposal.

"My son," she crooned. "We love you."

"I'm sorry," he said, voice cracking.

"I know. You are forgiven."

They stayed that way for countless moments, Frigga stroking her son's hair as the wound in his heart drained. It was not healed, not yet. That would take time, and in the uncertainty of war time was a fragile, fleeting commodity. It was, however, a beginning.

Frigga's part was played out, for now. She watched her son leave her chambers, buried in heavy thoughts, and sent a prayer to the Ancients, arrayed in the halls of Valhalla.

Loki was considering his choices.

OOO

It wasn't the first time he had wandered the halls of Glaðsheimr. It was the first time in months he had done so without a guard, however, and the freedom should have been intoxicating.

All Loki could think about was of roots and water, and forks in the path.

The hallway lamps were at their lowest settings, glowing just enough for the servants to see by but not enough to set the golden walls shimmering, or to banish the shadows from the corners. Loki wandered. The ghost of his mother's perfume clung to his clothes.

Preserve himself or preserve Asgard. It should have been an easy choice. Loki should have smirked and bade the City a fond farewell, and dug up the most richly appointed hole he could burrow himself into.

And yet, he hesitated. He couldn't follow through, and he was afraid he knew why.

He processed down the grand staircase, trailing his fingers along the oculus' shaft. He thought of ice and cold, and Sigyn's pink cheeks and imploring eyes. She had taken his hand without any sign of disgust that it belonged to a monster.

_Monster_. He thought of his mother, and her revelations of Odin. _Had_ the Allfather cradled him close, once? _Was_ he truly seen as a son and not a trophy?

No. It was impossible. Loki had given up on those hopes long ago, when the cold embrace of gravity claimed him for its own. He had given up on anything but bitter revenge—but now his conviction wavered.

Frigga had rocked him, wiped away his tears like she had when he was young and scraped his knee. She had kept his childhood blanket, and though he hadn't seen them, he was certain Urðr's words were true and that she kept still the tokens he had given her. Why would she do these things for a Jötunn?

And Thor. Indefatigable, irascible, naive Thor. He had defended Loki through no need of his own, with no benefit to himself lest it be to ingratiate himself to Loki, and blunt as his brother was Loki couldn't see him mustering the guile to make such a play. Thor, who stood at every juncture with his arms spread wide in hopes of welcoming Loki in.

If it had been Asgard alone Loki could have done it. He could have abandoned his _true_ homeland to stay alive in view of the oncoming war.

Loki slipped by the Hall of Noble Dead. He walked beneath the imposing grandeur of Valaskjálf. The Causeway beckoned, and he had a destination half in mind, though the mere thought of it made his heart race. He wiped his sweaty palms on his tunic as he passed the rubble littering the civic plaza.

Face his fears? So be it. He would go to their source.

It was a long walk. The trade winds were fierce, where the oceans plunged to the heavens below, and the salt smell of the sea, tinged with the sour bite of the kelp mats he could see floating on the whitecaps, permeated the air. Loki stepped lightly on the shattered crystal of the Causeway, and his gaze skittered away from the iron stare of the Gatekeeper.

Heimdall was silent. Loki knew he could see the choice playing out in his eyes; what need had the Watcher to demand his purpose in being there? Heimdall turned away, back to his inland scrutiny, and it was as eloquent an expression of disapproval as any Loki had seen, for never before had the Guardian of Asgard been forced to watch his own land so intently, lest it be torn from within.

Loki pushed aside the guilt. It had no place for him here—and yet, as he stared down at the faint imprints of Mjölnir against the surface of the bridge, the guilt rose up, anyway. He stared at the miniature cirque carved into the side of Asgard's rocky base, where once had rested the roots of the Bifröst and now spun open air, and spume, and beyond...

Void.

Loki shivered. He looked upward, but that was no better, for he found himself watching the anguished face of his brother shrinking away into the stars. He stood trembling on the border of safety and falling, and Urðr's forking path spread out before him.

Stay and fight, or flee and be safe a while longer. Beside him, Heimdall turned to watch eastward. The tip of his sword scratched against broken glass.

Loki lost track of how long he stood there, staring down into the memory of his fall. Around him sea birds called, and Heimdall turned the watch, and the dim light of twilight made way for the spangled gloom of night. Faint shivers of light surged underfoot, pushing toward a nexus that was no more.

_Your fears follow you, Seed-of-Laufey._

Loki snorted. He was riven with fear. Everyone was. What made his fear so different?

_One path leads to endless warfare and the despair of your people._

They were doomed anyway. Thanos was surely with the Chitauri, he would crush Asgard and strain the dust of her unmaking like sand between his fingers. If Loki were wise he would retrieve the Gauntlet while he still could and seek to curry the Mad Titan's favor.

_One cannot escape one's fate, Loki, son of no father._

One can avoid dying.

_Does Loki of Asgard face his fears, or does he die a cold death in bed, denied the warmth of Valhalla?_

"What do you want from me?" he hissed to the silent stars. "Which is the path you want me to take?"

_Know that if you fear too greatly you will certainly fall._

The realization that the choice was his alone settled heavy in Loki's heart. Urðr would give him no answers. He thought back to the spider. It seemed he would be forced to play this game out over and over again, into eternity: he, the laughingstock of the Norns.

But was Odin the spider, or was it Thanos? Which was the greater fall?

Heimdall's voice was dark against the black sky, and loud where it broke into Loki's whirling thoughts. "I see much, Son of Odin. I see enough to know that sometimes, looking ahead hinders when one should look behind."

Loki shot the Guardian a dubious glance, but Heimdall was watching the City, and didn't move an inch from his ready stance. Loki shrugged and faced back to the stars—but something plucked at the back of his mind, and he turned around, facing the City alongside the Horn-Bearer.

She glittered across the water, silver in the light of the waxing moon. Loki traced the familiar line of her towers against the cosmic horizon, counted the tiny lights that hung suspended in her shadows like fireflies in a hedge. She was beautiful, and Loki knew he could never abandon her, again. He had withered by the Mad Titan's side, far from the warmth of his home and those faces he refused to admit he loved.

He took a deep shuddering breath, and a knot of tension loosened in his chest. The relief buoyed him up and could have sworn he was falling.

OOO

Odin was with Týr when his son came to him, bursting through the doors half in challenge and half in mad glee. Odin nodded to the Einheri-Goði and bid his son good evening. "You have come to accept my proposal," he said.

Loki smiled a wild, fey smile. Odin saw Týr scowl out of the corner of his eye, but Loki's madcap mien remained unspoiled. He bowed deeply. "Indeed, Allfather, I come to lay myself out before the knives of our enemies, for the sake of Asgard."

"I doubt it will come to that," Odin said, and his relief and pride choked his voice. "Tell me, my son, how can I assist you?"

Loki's crooked smile went sharp. "Oh, no, Father. There is nothing you can give me that will help. Besides—there is a trick I have been meaning to try for a good, long time."

Odin nodded. "So be it," he said, but Loki had already vanished in a flicker of shadow.

Beside him, Týr spoke. "You trust him to return?"

Odin smiled "Yes," he said. "I do."


	21. Chapter 21

The Other surveyed the realm known as Asgard. It had fallen so easily, this stretch of rock; they had barely fought. The _humans_ had put up more resistance than these lotus-eating swine, these _Æsir_, who sat safe in golden towers on their island that floated through space. Where was the challenge the Betrayer had sworn? Had it known it would be so simple to conquer the fabled world of the gods the Other would have done so first, rather than waste an entire hive on Earth.

Its scouts had informed it that the population of this island was formidable, but that the vast majority of that number was made up of noncombatants. This species differentiated into sexes, and it seemed those who solely bore young were too weak to defend themselves while the siring sex alone fought in battle. The Other snorted. Such an inefficient system. It kicked aside an inattentive drone and stepped toward its dwelling.

The lordling who had given its life that the Other might take this house had been a proud one. It had looked into the Other's hooded face and spat before the executioner's blade came down on its fragile neck. The Other hummed at the memory. It walked through airy halls and windowed drawing rooms, paying no heed to the ocean vista beyond. It cared only for the impromptu strategy room it had set up in an inner chamber, far from the gaze of the Asgardians' watcher. It sat before its desk and considered the map on the wall.

The Betrayer had mentioned the guardian Heimdall before, in warning. The Other doubted the reach of this ás' supposed sight, but rather than be made a fool it had decreed all communications be kept to mental frequencies rather than verbal, that their ranks be carefully disorganized, and that their movements be set out of sync. It wouldn't do to give up any advantage.

There was a commotion outside; the Other switched into its aural link and was almost bowled backwards by the force of its troops' excitement.

_*We have the Betrayer! We have Loki Laufeyson!*_

The Other shot to its feet. _*Bring it before me.*_

A cadre of drones brought the prisoner in, raising a clatter as they skittered through the halls, and the Other went to meet them. They pushed their captive to its knees before their leader. The Betrayer looked very poor, indeed. Its—no, the term was "his"—his clothes were torn, stained with dirt and sweat, and it—_his_, face was drawn with hunger. The Other was not overly familiar with these humanoid faces, but Loki Laufeyson looked hunted. The shine in his eyes was of not of rage or cunning, but of fear.

If that weren't enough to condemn him a coward, his lips were still sewn. He looked for all the world like a stray, cast out by his own people to fend for himself in the wild, and he had not yet mustered the courage to cut the thread from his flesh. Truly, this creature was despicable, and the Other regretted the day it had given its hive into his keeping.

"Why do you come here, Loki Laufeyson?" it asked.

The Betrayer cringed, bowing his head. He remained silent, and the Other reflected on how inconvenient it was for a race not to be able to link up. Had this fungus been Chitauri, a sewn mouth would have been no obstacle at all.

It yanked the fallen ás up by his crest, his _hair_. His eyes were wet; that meant he was experiencing deep emotion. "You made a mistake coming here, Betrayer," the Other hissed. "You will receive no succor from us." Water overflowed the Betrayer's eyes to trickle down his cheeks. He trembled in the Other's hands. The Other clicked its teeth together in disgust.

Tightening its grip in his hair and seizing an arm to support, the Other hauled the Betrayer's whimpering carcass through the halls and into the study. It threw him down before the tactical holo. "Behold, what we do to those who betray us." It was coded, but the Other knew the Betrayer could read it. "We crush their worlds as we crush inferior young."

The Betrayer's eyes grew wide as he read the map. Shock and horror, the Other supposed. Their faces were so different. "Our leader gave us special dispensation to pursue you," the Other crowed. "Earth was a stepping-stone, for the Gauntlet is everything. You are fortunate he is not here with us, that he is rectifying your mistakes on that planet, or your failure would be a very brief problem, indeed. You will watch, Loki Laufeyson, as our hives tear apart your world piece by piece. You will watch as we tear apart every person you love, every sanctuary you retreat to, every last thing you hold dear—and when we are done, I will tear you apart and cast you into space to join them."

It expected the Betrayer to cower, to collapse, to beg for clemency. Anything, really, but to stand up, shake the shackles off his wrists, and wave the stitches from his lips in a puff of smoke. He stood tall and proud, for the Betrayer was no longer starving but hale and full of fury, and his armor was polished to a martial gleam. "Thank you for your cooperation," he said. "You have been most informative."

In a blinding flash the Other understood the Betrayer's game, and with a hiss it seized its pistol. The bolt struck a glancing blow, but the Betrayer had already pulled the shadows about himself, leaving no more than a sigh of displaced air.

The Other bellowed, throwing its pistol at the place the ás had once stood. _*Mobilize!*_ it screamed on all frequencies. _*Surprise is lost, we move before all advantage is gone!*_

In the distance it heard the lumbering groans of the disturbed leviathans, and sent the order to the hives, carefully tucked away from the battle, to ready reinforcements.

Loki Laufeyson would pay, and the Other would be the one to watch his soul shiver and die.

OOO

The worlds shifted around him, and shadows fell in Loki's eyes. His side burned, and in the distortion the shades beyond the veil of reality flickered at the edges of his sight. He panicked, grasping at his magic to keep from falling back into the abyss, and the sour, sharp taste of fear coated the back of his tongue. Reality swam closer, and Loki clung to it. It slowed his progress, but he was still faster than even the quickest skiff.

His side ached, and the sun faded from the murky skies of the Place Between. It must be twilight, in the world. There, he caught the glimpse of a shed—a croft, its tenant farmer herding the cattle into the barn for the night. Here, a windswept tree on the darkened plain, backlit by glowing nebulae. The mountains rose with the morning sun, veiled and winking from his sight, and in a breath he was through them. Beyond, nestled in the fjordlands of Asgard's northern shore, the City leaped up, glittering and unspoiled in the settling afternoon.

It was pure accident that he let go of his power when he did. He had meant to hold it that much longer, and if not for the wound in his side he would have landed over open space. He was glad; the joys of a tumble down Glaðsheimr's grand staircase were not among those he wished to sample. He let out a shuddering breath and pulled himself upright, leaning against a column and sucking in the sweet, twilit air.

Odin was waiting for him on the landing. "Good," he said. "I was just on my way to my rooms. Walk with me."

Loki opened his mouth to protest, but no sound came out, and Odin waited for none. He strode down the hall, and Loki yielded to his father's iron will, bobbing after him like a toy in a baby's bath water.

The Allfather led him to his personal rooms, those he shared with Frigga, and in the sitting room corner Loki caught sight of the cabinet containing his childhood things. He thought of the viewing stone. He looked to Odin. How could they be the same? How could that warm, loving father, who had carried him for a week straight, be the same as stood before him on the balcony, distant and silent as the sentinel statues rising along the arcade beyond?

Loki gathered himself, reaching for his wits to guide him and his anger to protect him, but still Odin said nothing, staring instead at the brightening stars above. "The Necklace rises," he finally said. "Harvest time approaches."

Loki shifted uneasily. There were rules to this game, as there were rules to all games, but this time he didn't know them. His father had always upset his composure.

"A month, maybe less, and the granaries will be stocked. We could not have asked for better timing."

His realm was invaded and he was concerned about the granaries. Loki steeled himself and squared off against the Allfather. "Aren't you going to ask about the Chitauri?"

Odin stared out over the balcony, unfazed by his younger son's belligerence. "I will hear in due time."

Loki sucked in a sharp breath, and his hands fisted at his sides. "Yes, no doubt Heimdall has already told you everything you need to know," he hissed, fighting back the sting of tears. "Why don't you just admit It: this whole scheme of yours to infiltrate the enemy camp wasn't because you actually needed me, it was just a ruse to get me under your thumb!" The shot in his side ached.

Still the old man wouldn't face him. "Heimdall can see nothing, nor have our scouts been able to provide information. Neither can penetrate their defenses. I sent you, Loki, because you can. You know this."

"I am _sick_ of people telling me what I know!"

Odin finally turned to look at him, his single eye unreadable. "What _do_ you know? Tell me."

Loki backed down, deflated. "I know Thanos isn't with them," he said sullenly, and though he resisted he felt the fight leave him. "He's on Midgard."

The Allfather bowed his head, his expression grave. "That makes ill-hearing."

Memories of the broken world Thanos had made his way-station flashed through Loki's mind, and he took a shaky breath. "Better them than us," he said.

Odin gave him a sharp look. "Never be glad in the hardship of others. It does nothing but destroy you in turn."

"What, and our delight in the fading of Jötunheimr's might harmed us so greatly?"

Perhaps he was mistaken, but Loki thought he saw Odin's eye flash with regret and bitter humor. It passed quicker than he could track, and Odin was once more facing the City beyond. "There is nothing we can do for Midgard," he said, almost to himself. "We can only hope that their own defenders can withstand Thanos' might."

His words summoned the glimmer of a plan to Loki's mind, and he chose his next words with exquisite care. "The Chitauri are many, Majesty, and they are stronger than we care to admit. The Einherjar outmatch them in single combat, but Father—" the word fell with pathetic ease from his tongue, "—they outnumber us five-to-one. With the reserves we could possibly offer resistance, but they are scattered throughout Asgard. They can't muster in time."

He paused and steeled himself. "If we wish to win this fight we must utilize every weapon at our disposal. The Infinity Gauntlet—"

"No." Odin's voice was a slap in the darkening, salt-scented air. "I would not use that in this fight, nor in any other."

Incredulity burned through Loki's mind. "You would cast aside so powerful an advantage? Why!"

The Allfather faced Loki fully, his eye blazing. "It is no advantage! To use the Gauntlet is to expose oneself to the energies it contains, and no one walks from such power without it staining them. I would not use Thanos' Hand even if Asgard were on the brink of destruction."

Loki fell back, stunned to silence. His father had made his decision. "Then we have nothing more to speak about," he said, bowing and leaving the room.

"We both know that is untrue," the Allfather murmured to his son's retreating back, but he allowed him to go. Loki would speak when he was ready. Odin had to trust his son would know when that was.

OOO

Loki stormed through the halls, blowing a dark cloud of ill-temper behind him as he went. The guard had been increased, he saw. Nearly every turning had its own sentinel, and all of the private rooms, including Thor's, were watched. It was further goad to his frustration. He dematerialized his armor as he walked, and checked his wound. It was no more than a graze, already half-healing.

He threw open his door, slamming the knob back into the deepening hole in the plaster, and stormed into the sitting room. There, instead of loosing havoc as he intended, he stopped dead, for Sigyn was waiting for him. She was standing by his desk, his half-forgotten apology clenched in her trembling fingers and hope raw in her eyes. She looked so small, in the literary disarray of his quarters.

"Sigyn?"

A gasp broke from her lips, tiny and fragile, and her small hand clutched at the desk to steady her.

Loki's heart jumped to his throat. "Sigyn, what happened?"

"By the Tree, if you're a shade come to torment me with madness, leave me in peace, I beg you." Her voice was ridden with doubt and fear, and still that hope shone through.

Loki skirted the table between them and raised a hand to her. "Sigyn, what are you talking about? I am no shade."

She recoiled from his touch. "You never said goodbye," she said. "A guard said—you vanished, no one would tell me anything, and then your letter, I thought you were, that it was—" She broke off and held the letter out to him.

His own handwriting stared back at him, apologizing for what he had done and that he hoped she could someday forgive him. Ice ran through his veins. "Sigyn," he murmured, stepping close. "I didn't—"

The slap was entirely unexpected. He registered her hand swinging toward his face, and had just enough time to flinch before the room tilted to the side. It was only after his cheek started stinging that he processed the sound of it—although perhaps that was the ringing in his ears. He gaped at her.

"I thought you had killed yourself," she accused. "You didn't come to see me after the meeting with your mother. You vanished, and I had to hear it from one of the guards that you had—that you—" Her words stumbled to a halt, and Loki moved in closer, wary of her hands. He enfolded her in his embrace, and she pressed against him as though to meld her body with his.

"It was reconnaissance, my lady, no more," he said, shocked by the depth of her fear for him. "The Allfather needed intelligence, and he said I was the only man for the job."

Sigyn choked softly. "I thought you had given yourself up to the Chitauri," Sigyn mumbled into his chest, and Loki's heart tightened.

"I did, actually," Loki said, masking the ache with jest. "They found I was not to taste and spat me back out."

"That is not what I mean, and you know it." She tightened her hold about him. He felt the shake in her arms, the shudder in her breath, and his heart broke. "I thought... I thought I would never see you again, Loki."

He stroked her hair. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

She pulled away, looked him in the eye. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she had not let her tears fall. So brave, his Sigyn. "If you do it again I will hunt you down and kill you myself."

He ran the backs of his fingers against her cheek. "Will you now? All that trouble just because I forgot to say goodbye?"

"Especially because." She reached up and stroked his lips, one after the other, and again. "You can speak now. You can't forget; there are those around you who need your words like they need air."

He shuddered and pulled her to him, dislodging her hands that he might press his lips to hers. She was so soft against him, her skin satin against his fingertips, and yet there was iron, too, in the pull of muscle beneath his hands, in the force of her will beneath that shy exterior. She was no cringing maid. She was no wilting flower, to wither at the first sign of hardship. She was a doughty desert plant, beautiful as the purple bloom on a cactus and as clever as the spines that sheltered it.

Her lips parted his, and their tongues twined in desperation. Heat sparked, Sigyn surged against him even as he surged back, and lust and love and fear and relief swirled together in a storm that rivaled anything Loki's brother could summon.

He tore at her clothes and she pulled at his, belts and tunics and petticoats cast aside as they made for his bed. He spread her out upon the counterpane, her hair pouring across it like gold from a crucible, and leaned over to fasten his mouth to her breast, suckling as a child. He savored her surprised, breathy gasps. His fingers trailed lower, down her belly, through the thatch of hair that guarded her cleft, and through the slippery moisture her body had made for him.

She groaned, her hands roaming over his shoulders. She scratched at his skin to draw him closer. Her leg came up to hook over his hip, and he ran his free hand down her thigh, tracing over her knee before sliding his fingers back up to squeeze her buttock. Sigyn grunted, her hips stuttering into his. She undulated against him. Skin slid hot and humid against skin, and Loki shuddered, hard with anticipation. He crushed her down into the mattress and ravished her mouth, nipping her lips and laving the sting with his tongue before dipping in to taste her once more. He wanted to taste every part of her, open her wide and lick her, leave his mark on her with his teeth. He pulled away and bit her shoulder.

She hissed, rolling them over in a sinuous twist. The room wheeled about, and Loki found himself staring at her above him, her hair a wild halo about her head. His hands found their way to her hips. She ground down and back into his erection, and he grit his teeth against his flare of arousal, his hands pressing bruises into her skin.

Her touch, in turn, was light, where she ran her fingers down his chest. He shied when she reached his ticklish sides. A sly, lazy smile spread across her lips, at odds with the frantic nature of their coupling. She leaned forward. "For later," she whispered in his ear, and when she ran her tongue up the outer edge of it his breath left him in an undignified whine. Her hands were gentle over the graze.

She gave him no time to recover, arching back and spearing herself onto him. Loki threw his head back, succumbing to the shocks of pleasure that raced up his spine. His fingers clenched into her hips, dragging her down even as he pressed up, and the moist clench of her around him drew a ragged groan from his throat.

"Sigyn," he found himself whispering, caught between sharp pleasure and aching love. "Sigyn." He stared into her blown eyes and she moved, rocking against him. Her eyes slid shut, her head fell back, and Loki couldn't resist the temptation of her throat.

He sat up, wrapping his arms around her back to keep her close, and kissed the hollow between her collarbones . He rocked his hips into hers, the tight heat of her body around his length intoxicating, and Sigyn's hands slipped into his hair, knotting against his scalp. She fluttered around him, and her sigh was hot against his skin. The smell of their sweat and lust filled the space between them.

He sucked a line of marks into her neck, then followed her rising flush up to her cheeks and kissed them, kissed her nose, her chin; he caught his fingers in her hair and he kissed her lips. It was less artful, now, more a desperate exchange of breath as they worked together. She was panting softly, hushed little mewls hot against his lips, and Loki felt something dark and possessive rise up in his chest. Sigyn was _his_, in every way, in every time.

She went rigid, her body clenching around him even as her hands clenched in his hair. Loki wriggled a hand between them, stroked the nubbin at her core, and she fell apart in his arms, crying out helplessly as her orgasm overtook her. He felt the surge of wetness, saw the pleasure etch its painful way across her face.

He hoarded the image close to his heart. Sigyn was his, no other's. He teetered on the edge, clawing toward resolution, and the flush on her cheeks, the sharp bite of her nails into his back, the sound of his name a plea on her lips, sent him over. He felt his climax spike, riding like fire down his spine, and there was a crystalline moment of clarity before he was spilling himself into her, whimpering with the agony of release. The world faded, and all that he was was her, her skin, her sweat, her body pressed to his.

When he returned, ages and mere seconds later, she was stroking his hair, smoothing out the tangles she had rucked it into. "I love you," he murmured into her shoulder, burning with embarrassment and exhilaration.

"Good," she murmured in reply. "Because I love you, too."

Together, their heartbeats calmed, their breathing slowed, and fingers drifted lazily across slickened skin. Eventually, they pushed back the covers and slept, wound together and inseparable.


	22. Chapter 22

When the goðar gathered the next day, it was with new purpose. The shock and restrained panic of the invasion had settled, and matured into iron resolution. They came in groups of twos and threes, voices muted with worry but spines ramrod with determination. They clustered about the map table, staring at the spill of red across the southern border of Asgard, and waited for the Royal Family to convene.

Thor was the first to arrive, accompanying Týr, the scarred Goði of the Einherjar, and his presence, formidable in the confines of the War Room, was as a balm to fraying nerves. He had grown much, since his exile, all said it, and his prowess as tactician and general had increased tenfold.

The Allfather was next, escorted by the Queen. Huginn and Munnin, each black and glossy as chipped obsidian, fluttered from their lord's shoulders to the back of his chair as the Monarchs of Asgard passed. Odin stayed at the head of the map, and Frigga, as her right, took the foot, together announcing their dual reign.

It surprised no one that the Traitor-Prince came last, impeccably dressed and his head at an arrogant tilt. He claimed a place opposite Thor, incautious of who he jostled to take it. From one side, old Njörðr glared, and from the other, Idunn, unflappable even in the face of spoiled princes, offered a dry glance. Neither said a word, however, nor anyone else, for the Allfather knocked his knuckles against the table.

"Come, Loki, and tell us what you have found."

The second prince straightened from where he had been inspecting the tokens scattered across the map. His mutilated face was impassive, though he spoke freely enough. "The bulk of the Chitauri force is at Eyrarbakki, some three phalanges of leviathans. The balance are at Mjóifjörður, and here, at Húsavik." He tapped the map over each city, sending ripples of energy through the image. "It's a piece of strategic genius. With these three not only do they control the Gléra estuary and the home port for the Ægirjar, but they hamstring the entire southern trade economy. It's a siege they want, and they've set themselves up magnificently."

A flutter of murmurs wove through the listeners, but Loki was not finished. "The Chitauri military is built around their leviathans. One leviathan holds two hundred infantry and is escorted by one hundred fifty skiffs, each with one pilot and two snipers. As the Watcher said, all told there are sixty leviathans arranged in six phalanges." He prodded a token. "That is barely two thirds of one hive, and the Other clearly said hives plural."

Murmurs rose to shocked noises and muffled incredulity. "That's thirty thousand!" Freyja exclaimed, pounding her fist against the lip of the table. "And you say there are more hidden elsewhere? Our Einherjar barely account for six thousand, and the City contingent of longships is no more than three hundred!"

Loki nodded, face grim. "We will have to muster the reserves, and hope they can mobilize before the Chitauri advance." He looked around at the shocked expressions. "Oh yes, they mean to advance. This is an invasion, after all. The Other unwisely showed me their plan, and it is brutal in its simplicity. They will take all our resource-rich territories long before they get to the Kiol Range, and once there it will be a but a trifle to lay siege to the City. They mean to flank us; Mysen is one of the first northern targets, as well as Hamar and Halden, and from there they will clear the surrounding fjordlands until we are a solitary island in a sea of Chitauri. We won't last very long."

"That remains to be seen," Odin said. "Týr, Njörðr, what news do you bear?"

"The muster has already been sent out, Heimdall's horn saw to that," Týr said. "The fjordlanders and those in the north mountains should be here within days; those to the south, anywhere from a week to a month, depending on distance and how fast the Chitauri advance."

"It will be slow," Loki cut in. "The leviathans are not speedy. Perhaps a month for them to reach the Kiolar." Týr curled his lip, but nodded. He had been one of the more vocal opponents in Loki's trial, though he had accepted the gentle ruling with greater ease than some. Nevertheless, he glared at the Traitor-Prince, absently running his fingers over the stump of his hand.

Beside him, Thor shifted. "A month is not long, when it comes to readying for war." Loki threw him an annoyed glance, but Njörðr interrupted.

"We will have to stretch it as much as we are able," he said. "As for the Ægirjar, coastal warfare is our forte. Our warships are not as maneuverable as a skiff, but we can slip into crevices the leviathans cannot, and these are our home seas. We know them like we know our own hands. We can hold the City, if not the surrounding lands."

"Let it be enough," Thor said.

"It won't be," Freyja retorted. "Not if they hold another thirty thousand in reserve, and another after that."

"We can't just summon an army out of thin air, sister," Freyr said. "We have what we have, and as the Crown-Prince said, it will have to be enough."

Loki stirred from where he had settled back to listen. "No, it doesn't. We have resources yet untapped."

All eyes turned once more to the second, lesser son of Odin. He was silent for a time, marshaling his thoughts. "We speak only of physical might, but that is not the only strength on Asgard. Do we not bolster the longships with enchantments? Is not the armor of every soldier worked with rune-seiðr? We are surrounded by magic used passively. Why not use it actively?"

There was silence. The Allfather, quietly listening until now, spoke the question in all their hearts. "What do you propose?"

"The collegia are filled with fully-trained seiðr-workers. We might, in a month, be able to bring them to some kind of fighting force." He stood tall, and looked at no one but his father.

"Seiðr, in war?"

"That is a cowardly—"

"It certainly does broaden the force available to us."

"But... most sorcerers are women, no offense Freyja—"

"Is a month enough time?"

"—never work."

"It is a good plan," Odin said. "What we do not have, however, is time. A month is insufficient to adequately prepare the collegia to fight, not when they are also consumed with bolstering our City's defenses. See me when we break, Loki, and we will speak further."

Loki's eyes were wary, but he nodded. He glanced to his brother; Thor was recalling something, he always tilted his head so when he tapped his memories. He met Loki's gaze, a speculative gleam in his own eyes. Loki broke away, confusion plain on his narrow face.

The Queen stepped into the gap. "What of our stores? There will be many mouths to feed in the coming month, and in those that follow."

The Grovesmistress raised her silver head to address the þing. "The summer wheat was abundant, this year. Our granaries are full. We face great odds, but it seems the Norns chose to weave us some small mercies."

"Yes, but the richest fields are in the south, in Chitauri possession," Thor said. "Our good fortune is theirs, as well."

Idunn shrugged elegantly. "That is so. They do not, however, have access to the rich fisheries of the northern coast, or my bumper crop of apples. Further, I have received word from several country jarls who are willing to bring their tithes before the second harvest, with the influx of reserve and refugee. Were the city to swell to twice its current population our stores would yet last six months. Were it to grow to three times, they would last three."

Thor inclined his head, conceding her point.

On it continued, long through the day and into the night, and all knew it would continue for days after that. The eyes of the city watched the palace, hopes guttering in the dark wind from the south, and the Diar-Þing sought to pull salvation from thin air.

OOO

_He was kneeling, his breath shallow and rapid, sharp in his straining lungs, and the jagged stones beneath him cut into his knees. Over him, Thanos loomed, black against the starless void, hungry as a wolf._

_"Magic is not a toy, little king," the Mad Titan said. "It is not meant to be used for tricks and the amusement of others; it is a tool. Theatricality is a waste. Illusion is a waste. Subjugating others without purpose is a waste. You are wasteful, Asgardian." He twitched his fingers, and the loose rib in Loki's chest shifted. Loki gasped in pain. "There is much in you that is inferior. Much weakness. Say it."_

_Loki whimpered, forced into rigid posture by the knife-pain in his ribs. The words were bitter on his lips. "I am inferior. Weak."_

_"Mercy is weakness. The only mercy you should show is to offer the kind hand of Death. Say it."_

_"M-mercy is weakness. Death is the only mercy I will d-dispense. I am sorry, please, I am sorry." Bodies, cast aside like broken toys, flashed before his mind's eye. They had been so fragile, those alien creatures, mere wisps of flesh. They died in droves. Loki couldn't control his shivering._

_Thanos stretched a hand to his face in a parody of a caress. "You are weak, Loki, Son of Laufey. You have potential, if you can but overcome your childish urges. Look beyond revenge, know Death is awaiting you with generous arms. What is so trifling a concern as family in Her equalizing embrace?"_

_"Nothing," Loki murmured, and he thought of Thor. He thought of Asgard. He thought of simple sunlight on his skin, and of gentle slumber. He pushed them away. Those were not for him, anymore. He drew up memories of countless slights, a dozen little wrongs and those fewer wrongs far larger. He remembered sunburn and nightmares._

_"Ah, you learn." Thanos grinned, more a feral baring of the teeth than a true smile. "Love is a mighty thing, little king, but it must be directed. Death has no need for love, but it can guide you to Her side._

_"You learn, yet you resist it at the same time. As you must show no mercy, know that I, too, reject it. Learn from my example. Stand."_

_Tears fell. Loki didn't bother wiping them away, more would follow. He knew what was coming. He staggered to his feet, arm tucked to his side to brace his rib, and tried to meet the Mad Titan's gaze_—_but the force of Thanos' presence overwhelmed his meager courage. He clenched his teeth, so as not to bite off his tongue._

_Thanos raised a hand, and power surged through Loki's body like a lover's caress, hideously intimate and cruelly invasive. Pain, sizzling, nerve-melting pain, pain of the body and pain of the mind, memories dredged to torment him, the blackest of emotions to crush him, the subtlest tap of a fingernail against the mooring of his soul to his body. The cold breath of Death rose blue on the back of his neck_—

"Loki!"

Someone was touching him, pinning his arms. He lashed out, striking at his attacker with both fist and craft. He heard a yelp, the hands vanished, and he threw himself out of the bed, trailing sheets and the last ribbons of sleep as he went.

He blinked. He was in his rooms, not on that half-blasted chunk of dead earth. It had been a dream. He touched his side, but the gash over his ribs was gone, long healed to a ropy scar.

"Loki?" Sigyn's voice startled him. She was nursing a split lip, and her eyes were wary.

"It was a dream," he said. He wasn't sure if he was explaining or begging for forgiveness. His sweat was clammy on his skin.

Sigyn ran her tongue over her lip, sucking off the blood. It had already clotted, but it would bruise magnificently in the morning. She shrugged, then reached out a hand to him, beckoning. It had not been the first time he had dreamed. "Come back to bed."

He did as she bid, struggling against the lingering tremors and aftershocks of psychic pain even as he wrapped himself around her as tight as he could. Her arms came around his shoulders, and she stroked his back soothingly.

"Can you tell me?"

The bare thought of it, of spilling his shame and weakness before Sigyn, nauseated him. "No," he said roughly. "I can't. Not yet."

"Alright." She stroked his back, tucked his head beneath her chin, and began talking.

It was nothing of any great importance, just noise to drive away his ghosts. First a story of one of her friends insulting a superior in her hearing, then a rambling treatise on the state of her plants. Her work on the Bifröst followed; she felt she might be reaching a breakthrough. Maybe. She mentioned her father. Messages had been coming rarer, lately, what with the lines clogging with military transmissions, but Njall had put one through two days ago saying he was returning to the City. Sigyn was relieved, Loki could tell, and as her happiness rose the pace of her words increased until they were fair tumbling out in excitement.

Soothed by the bright warmth of her presence and the pleasant shiver of her hand carding through his hair, Loki fell back to sleep.


	23. Chapter 23

As if by some silent command the Chitauri mobilized, and overnight their army went from squatting in the southern reaches to pouring out across the land like hornets from a kicked nest. Gone were their irregularities and non-sensical formations; gone were the baffles they had placed against infiltration. They roused the leviathans and poured a ransom in stolen livestock down their throats before goading them into the sky.

The people of Asgard quaked at their bellowing cries, and they gave way before the surge, but their hearts did not falter, nor did their hands slip to carefully hidden weapons to betray them. They would bide their time, for Asgard had been at peace, but she was not asleep, and the people of her lands welcomed war as they welcomed their spouses home from a long journey: with open arms. Their eyes, lowered before their captors, held not deference but concealed defiance.

When the Allfather called, they would answer, and they would smite the Chitauri horde from within.

Province by province the Land of the Æsir fell, first the alluvial farmlands with their plantations of wheat and barley, then the inner tundras and secluded hot springs—lands which bore the countless mines that furnished Asgard's treasuries and armories. Last were the forests cloaking Asgard's eastern shores, for the Chitauri seemed to fear the trees as a child might fear the dark.

They closed on the mountains in a vicious, groaning swath.

The City, meanwhile, was not idle. Every day men of the reserve flooded in, on horseback or by cart but most on foot, and the army grew. The City's squares became parade grounds, and the fallowed fields beyond her borders became drill fields. Cities of tents sprang forth on her surrounding islands and fjorðholmja, and the homes within the City herself welcomed as many refugees as they could hold.

During the day fishermen hunted the pelagic shoals, and every night fires spread the smell of smoked fish. Smithy fires, likewise burned day and night, churning out weapons and mail and repairs to both, and their apprentices made nails and shoes enough to bury the royal stables.

Nor were the sorcerers exempt from the preparations, for although they were not to be mustered as it was rumored they might have been, their skills were still in high demand, renewing fire-charms and locking-charms and, most importantly, bolstering the City's defenses. The landward wall was so strengthened it could have kept out the united might of Jötunheimr and Múspellheimr, and about the fragile gates the spells shimmered in the sun. To the sea, great chains were strung across the fjord-mouths, lowered during the day for the enterprising fisher-fleet but raised at night, and together with the wall their seiðr formed a dome of protection fit to repel any skyward attack.

It was near the end of Heyannir, midway through the anticipated month of Chitauri advance, when the first of two arrivals came to the City, bolstering her flagging morale. It was from the south they came, a flood of carts and wagons, an army in and of itself, bearing bushels and bales and the tithes of the northern lords for the sake of their City. They were headed by Njall Hallvardson, astride his rangy bay and bearing a smile for the daughter who ran to greet him.

The tithes were gladly received by Idunn and Frigga, the one marking the foodstuffs for the storehouses and the other gathering the coin for the treasury and the wools for the dyers. Together they made short work of the vast pile, and welcomed the jarls and their retinues into the palace until Glaðsheimr was full to bursting.

The second arrival was no less a boon to hope, for no more than three days after the arrival of the country lords a battle-scarred squadron of longships appeared in the bay, flying the banner of the Allfather and escorting Skíðblaðnir, flagship of the fleet. The chains were dropped with a joyous cry, and the longships rowed in to the cheers of their people and the acclaim of their admiral, Njörðr, who had raced from the palace to greet their commodore with laughing embrace.

That night the sailors told the story of how they had plotted their escape, and of the harrowing night they had fought their way free from the Chitauri lines to race them northward on the fast-flowing sea currents. The Allfather commended them, and distributed to them all bands of brave red woven with cunning green to wear about their arms.

So the Chitauri crept forward, and so the City girded her loins, and of all the far-seeing eyes in the Nine Realms none but the Norns could see the outcome of their clash.

OOO

Sigyn swung the quarterstaff, tried to raise a shield, _anything_—but it was too late, and the dagger buried itself hilt-deep in her chest. She gasped, jerking, heart in her throat, but there was no pain, nor any pulling. In fact, she couldn't feel the dagger at all. She lowered her staff and touched the hilt.

It vanished in a puff of green smoke. Her head shot up and she glared at Loki, who was leaning nonchalantly on his own staff. He buffed his fingernails against his surcoat before examining them. "Why did I beat you?"

"You didn't beat me," she grumbled. "It was an illusion."

"Illusions can kill just as surely as reality does. Why did I beat you."

Sigyn took a deep breath, and replayed their match in her mind. She was clumsy still, against Loki's speed; she could mount an adequate offense, but her defense was filled with holes. "I lowered my guard," she said.

"You also underestimated your enemy. The dagger surprised you."

"Well, yes. We were fighting with quarterstaves."

Loki shook his head, stepping closer to pull a strand of hair away from her sweaty face. "No. We were fighting whichever way would help us win. When the Chitauri come they will not stop for a formal bout. They will not wait for you to ready yourself or your weapon, and they will use whatever tricks they can to kill you as quickly as possible. War is not pretty, Sigyn."

She scowled at him. "I did survive one battle already, you know."

"You cannot expect every battle to go like the first, _alskling_," a new voice said, carrying in the heated summer air of the training courtyard.

Both Sigyn and Loki turned, though Sigyn already recognized the gravelly voice of her father. "Father!" She said, blushing as though he had caught her at something.

"Sigyn, what are you doing?" Njall's voice was gentle.

Loki answered. "I was drilling her, that she might be prepared when the Chitauri arrive."

Njall bowed, casting Loki a speculative look. "I did see that, Prince. I was, however, asking my daughter. We were to meet for the midday meal today."

"Oh!" Sigyn felt renewed embarrassment rise to stain her cheeks. "I forgot!"

"I presumed as much. If I may, Prince Loki, take my daughter from your tutelage?"

The strangest expression slipped its way onto Loki's face, a combination of amusement, surprise and, unless Sigyn was very much mistaken, intimidation. He masked it with a crooked smile. "Of course, Lord Njall. Your claim far outreaches mine." He bowed to Sigyn and took her staff. "Until next time," he said, and left them to properly store their weapons.

"Walk with me," Njall said, and Sigyn took his arm. Together they walked from the training yards, following the footpath leading to the formal gardens. The day was hot, the sun pressing overhead from a sky brassy with rising shimmers of heat. The buzzing drone of cicadas filled the air. Sigyn was wearing her lightest of work dresses, in deference to the temperature, and her father, too, was dressed lightly. She found herself wondering how it was Loki could maintain his usual, heavy garb in the face of both this summer heat and his heritage. He was stubborn enough to do it, she acknowledged to herself.

Her father's voice broke through her ruminations. "I see you no longer wear your mother's locket."

"Oh," Sigyn said, her hand rising to touch her naked collarbones. "No. Loki wears it, now."

Njall's eyebrows rose. "Does he. What, pray tell, has he promised in return?"

Her father was a gentle man, but even he could make his displeasure felt, should the need arise. Sigyn steeled her nerves. "He has shown me his weaknesses, Father. That is no small thing, for a man like Loki."

"I suppose this is so. It is not so tangible as a locket, however."

Sigyn snorted. "You just saw him training me to fight. That is a rather powerful argument that he cares enough about me to keep me alive."

They passed beneath a bower of climbing vines, their flowered throats open to the sunlight, and Njall frowned. "Not that I fail to appreciate his efforts, but I would almost prefer more conventional methods of courtship."

Sigyn brushed her hand along the top of a hedge as they walked. "This is not a conventional time."

"No, it is not." As one their eyes rose to scan the southern skies, a gesture that was becoming more and more common throughout the City-dwellers as the weeks wore on. The martial clash of the days drove back the slinking fears, but those fears rose to swallow hearts when the sun sank below the horizon. Sigyn no longer slept soundly at night, sure the whine of Chitauri skiffs overhead would rise at any moment, and Loki's nightmares were growing worse. Sigyn had learned to poke him with her magic from a distance than to wake him by hand.

Njall turned away first. "When may I expect his suit?"

Sigyn jerked in surprise. "Suit?"

"I assume he means to marry you." His gaze was shrewd.

"I... We, I mean... We haven't discussed it," Sigyn finished, and she swore her cheeks must be as red as the box flowers she could see two rows over.

"No?" Njall stopped, giving his full attention to his daughter.

Sigyn felt her resolve to maintain her composure crumpling under the weight of his fatherly concern. "There is a war, Father, and before that it was the Chitauri delegation. We don't know if we will survive the next days, let alone long enough to marry."

Njall grunted and resumed walking. Sigyn followed after. "I expect him at my door the minute victory is proclaimed."

Neither of them acknowledged the truth: that there may well be no victory at all. The remainder of their walk was quiet, and Sigyn tried to take comfort in the beauty of growing things, but the promise of clouds and raining fire, and that these gardens might in another month be charred and dead, cooled what simple joy she might have gained.

It was a harsh reminder of her duties, and she pulled away from her father's arm. She curtseyed. "I apologize, my lord father, but I must return to the collegium. My presence is required to bolster the shield generators on the Dagny Tower this afternoon."

Njall nodded, face grim. "Supper, then. You will be staying the night, I hope?" His dry tone was offset by the twinkle in his eye.

Sigyn gave a wan smile, mustering her cheer. "We shall see what his highness demands."

Her father snorted. "I see how it is. You leave your daughter in the City, just for the summer, mind, and immediately she picks up a burr that sticks under your saddle no matter how you try to shake it off. Well, _alskling_, _I_ demand your presence at the supper table at the _very_ least. The burr can sort himself for an hour or two."

Sigyn curtseyed again, then reached up to kiss her father's weathered cheek. "As you command. Good day, father." She hurried through the gardens to the nearest bridge.

Njall watched his only child disappear around the hedges and flowering urns, and a creeping sadness stole over his heart. However it happened, this war would take her from him.

OOO

Loki looked down at the line of Chitauri wending its way through the mountain pass. It was a tight squeeze; the leviathans were forced into single-file, and for safety it looked as though the infantry that normally stowed on their sides walked the road below. A skiff whined past at an uncomfortably close range, and Loki tightened the enchantments concealing himself and his brother.

"Something is not right," Thor said. His knuckles were white about Mjölnir's haft. "They are too far in the open, their movements too plain."

Loki said nothing, merely watched the line of advancing soldiers. In the distance, a lone bird dodged the ranks of Chitauri skiffs, swerving and dodging in a fit of aerial mastery, and Loki's gaze zeroed in on it. He twitched his fingers, sending out a tendril of his magic. The bird followed it in to their perch.

"It's from Eysteinn," he said, and the bird shed its feathers to reveal the message within. Loki triggered it. The southern general's voice rose, a mere whisper of its usual stentorian roar.

_"The locals say the bulk of their might is going through Kilvænn, but they only reported seeing four leviathans. The balance stayed in Flúðir, some five more. I have agents set to take them out on your mark."_

"It isn't _right_," Thor repeated. "A mere four leviathans to capture the City, strung through a pass where they might be picked off by a pair of half-trained goatherds?"

Loki dissolved the message and settled back on his haunches. "They mean to distract us."

"From what? We already know they mean to flank us, we have spies at their eastern and western encampments."

"I don't know." Loki summoned another twist of magic and formed it into a message spell. He whispered Eysteinn's words to it, and directed it to the Allfather's ear. A tarn dove darted out from their ledge and into the open sky.

Thor pondered the slow line moving past their hideaway. "The point of distraction is to turn an enemy's eyes from some strategy they do not wish to be seen," he said, murmuring half to himself. "They used diplomatic talks to assess our military might, they attacked the City to disguise their invasion. What does this pull our eyes from?"

"What bothers _me_," Loki said, leaning back against the rock behind them, "is the pittance the Other set aside for this invasion. Think about it. Thirty-thousand drones? If they know anything about Asgard, and trust me, they know more than enough, they would have sent the entire might of their conjoined hives against us. Yet they haven't. Why is that?"

"Reserves," Thor said, shrugging. "Keep them tucked back until such time as they are needed."

Loki shook his head. "No, dear brother, that is not it. They—"

He was interrupted by the wail of a ram's horn, mournful and impossible to deny. Both princes spun northward in shock. Heimdall's horn, blown once more in warning to the peoples of Asgard.

"They sent the balance through the northern shield-node," Thor said in horror. "It's weak without Bifröst—"

"—they can send an army through without worry of atmospheric friction," Loki finished.

Thor opened his mouth to reply, but a veritable cloud of skiffs rose from the surrounding mountain passes, and below the marching drones vanished in a pixelated hiss. Loki could see, now, where they berthed against the leviathans, tucked safely beneath the reaching tendrils as was their wont. The leviathans themselves groaned upwards, rising above the crags to make the straightest shot toward the City, and there were far more than the reported four. They poured from the rock like water from a breaking dam.

"Oh," Loki said. "That was well-done of them."

"You have been too long with Sigyn, brother," Thor replied, and he grabbed Loki about the waist before flinging them both into the open air.

Loki restrained his shriek by the slimmest of margins, instead channelling his instinctual terror into blowing apart the skiffs that took up chase. Mjölnir was deafening where it churned through the air, and Thor's arm about his ribs threatened to split him in half, and all told, Loki would have vastly preferred slipping through the Ways to get back to safety—but this worked, too. He blasted another skiff out of the sky.

They thundered over the foothills, watching as their bulk sank away into the jagged lines of the fjordlands, and the Chitauri had long given up chase by the time patchwork fields arose to meet the descending forests. Up ahead the City glittered in the sunlight, and beyond, appearing as no more than an iron-gray bank of fog hovering over the edge of the world, backlit by the wan flares of ships still breaking the atmospheric dome, the Chitauri invasion raced them home. Thor cursed, and Loki felt the skin on his face pulling back from the wind of their passage. He closed his eyes and ducked his head, and his breath was ripped from him.

Typical Thor.

They landed in the civic plaza with an almighty boom, cracking the pavement, and Loki staggered before he caught his feet. Overhead, the air shimmered in iridescent patterns as the City's defenses locked tight. It was reminiscent of standing inside a colossal soap bubble, and had Loki not been somewhat concerned with the Chitauri army spilling against the sides of said bubble he would have stopped to admire it.

Thor grabbed Loki's arm and dragged him toward the palace, and Loki yanked it free. Together they raced down the Causeway, Loki following Thor's lead as he hopped the gap between the bridge proper and a lower balcony on Glaðsheimr's façade. It was undignified, but it was faster, and speed was of the essence. The halls were thronged with panicking nobles, and despite the chaos they still managed to part for the princes barreling through.

The War Room was packed. Odin, in full battle-armor and with his ravens perched on his shoulders, awaited them.

"It's begun," Loki said, breathless. "The hammer and the anvil isn't east-west, as I had thought, it's north-south."

Týr smacked his remaining fist against the table. "Taking the reckless road, when no sane general would. Clever."

"Heimdall, did the outer islands evacuate in time?" Odin addressed the Gatekeeper, entering the War Room in the princes' wake.

"Barely, Allfather," he said, his golden eyes heavy and accusing on Loki. "There were casualties."

Loki glared back. Thor spoke.

"My brother could not have predicted this," he said to the table at large.

Indomitable Bölverkr took up the offense. "Did he not infiltrate their camp? What for, if not to garble the message and catch us flat-footed?"

"I am not the Watcher, I see no more than you, should they decide to change their plans," Loki hissed, and Heimdall reared back in outrage.

"Enough!" Odin roared. "This is not the time for accusations."

Bölverkr had taken a shine to his topic, however, and was not to be deterred. "It is folly to speak before the Traitor of Asgard," he said. "He brought the Chitauri; he will aid them, in the end."

A hush fell over the room at Odin's icy stare. "I trust the word of my son," he said. "If any doubts his word he doubts mine, and he may leave."

Loki felt his eyes bug from his skull, and he glanced to Thor. His brother's expression was less surprised, solid in his surety. He glanced at Loki, as though to see if their father's point had driven home. Loki glanced away. He swallowed against the confusion that drove his heart into his throat.

"Loki and I went to investigate the discrepancies in our spies' reports," Thor said. "We found the Chitauri in Kilvænn Pass as expected, but they used illusion and the natural stricture of the canyon to mask their numbers, and the labyrinth of the mountains themselves hid them from our sight. They mustered where we could not see them, and used Heimdall's warning as a rallying cry."

Loki cleared his throat. "I expect the rest of their plan will be much the same as I said before. They did not anticipate our shield; they will regroup in the surrounding countryside, and resume their plan of siege now that they have lost the element of surprise."

Heimdall's voice cut into the debate. His eyes were far away. "They are uprooting our intelligence networks," he said, and his voice was as ominous as the voice of the Norns proclaiming a fate. "The southern jarls are being executed for inciting rebellion."

Odin bowed his head. "We are alone, then," he said. "If we die, then we die honorably, in battle. Let us not seek that fate, however. Njörðr, report."

Loki stood as a stone beside his brother, and tried to ignore the weight of the accusing eyes that bore down on him. It was fruitless, and he was silent for the remainder of the meeting.

Three days later, a lone skiff deposited the severed heads of the southern rebels at the City gates.


	24. Chapter 24

Loki hurled his gloves at the desk as he entered his rooms, growling in frustration. "They are blind, willfully blind!" He tore away his cape to cast it over his chair before pacing across the floor. "We live or die by desperate leaps, but my father stands firm while the whole earth rises up to swallow him whole. I have no wish to die for the scruples of an old man!"

Sigyn followed him, vanishing his cape into its pocket and tidying his gloves. Her heart didn't match her outward calm, roiling instead in apprehension and nipping despair. She ran his gloves through her fingers to steady herself. "I am sure the Allfather knows what he is doing."

"No, he doesn't," Loki snarled, his eyes angry and wet. "He listens to what I say, but he does not hear, it has always been so. The Chitauri are vast, this is but a fraction of the numbers they command, and look at us! All our vaunted might and still they slaughter us like livestock! Does he not care why? Does he not realize superior skill is nothing in the face of superior numbers when the tactical advantage was never there in the first place?"

Sigyn looked down, afraid. Loki was right. The Chitauri were sweeping through the fjordlands inch by lazy inch, waging a war of attrition the Æsir had no hope of winning. Everyone was ragged about the edges, even Thor was showing the strain of so many battles and so little hope. Refugees streamed in every day, slowed to a trickle from the flood of weeks previous, but enough to bloat the City's population to unconscionable levels and put even more strain on her dwindling stores. Unless the war could be brought to a head it would be lost without the slightest doubt. The Diar-Þing grew increasingly desperate each day the Chitauri tightened their grip.

Loki threw himself into the chair his cape had so recently vacated and buried his head in his hands. "The Gauntlet is the only way," he mumbled. "That, or the tesseract, but the Allfather trusts that as little as he trusts the other, and I fear even its great power wouldn't be enough, anymore—for what good is power if you have no way to direct it?"

Sigyn came up behind him and rested her palms on Loki's shoulders, seeking to ease the knots out of his muscles. "You could, perhaps, borrow without permission."

He snorted, head lolling. "Yes," he said. "I could." He said no more than that, his face set in bitter lines as he glared into the middle distance. Sigyn rubbed his shoulders, her mind creeping along uncertain pathways, and Loki kept his unaccustomed silence. A quiet, dignified despair permeated the room.

Asgard would fall. Thousands of generations she had reigned supreme among all the Realms, since time immemorial, and Sigyn would witness her fall. She pressed back against the tears.

The City gongs rang in warning, cutting through the moment. Sigyn let her hands slip from Loki's shoulders. He rose, and the crushed anger and resignation in his eyes was wretched to behold. He summoned his armor to him with a half-hearted gesture, and it appeared with muted flashes, scarred and tarnished and untended past the necessaries to keep it sound.

"Go," Sigyn said. "I'll be right behind."

She told herself it was his burden of hopelessness that distracted him from her lie. He nodded, and vanished with a twist of his hand, bound, no doubt, for the War Room. She gave a shaky sigh, and instead of following, made her way to the lowest corridors of Glaðsheimr, instead.

The shadows leaned heavy on the lamplit walls, in the halls beneath Hliðskjálf. So far down and the whispering echoes of the mustering army, dulled by space and obstructing stone to the faintest hush of air, were the only sounds to be heard. The guards stood motionless before the door to the weapons vault. Sigyn thought she recognized the younger from the battle in the throne room. She wasn't sure. She hesitated, gauging her choices, then shook herself.

It was time, or else it was no time at all and she should leave right now. Emerging from the shadows, she let her boot scuff against the floor. The younger guard glanced her way, and his eyes widened in recognition. "M'lady! What are you doing here?"

So it _was_ him. Sigyn bowed her head to hide her lie. "The Diar has need of... of a device in the vault, and has tasked me to retrieve it." She knew better than to invoke the Allfather's name.

The elder guard glanced her way. "Why you?" His eyes were flat and hard.

She clung to a certain truth. "I am convenient. I am far enough in their confidences to be able to help, but distant enough not to know too much. Why must I explain myself?"

"It's our duty," the elder guard said, fingers tightening on the shaft of his halberd. "We question anyone who wishes to enter the weapons vault, save for the Allfather and the Crown-Prince."

"I'm sure it will be fine," said the younger guard, glancing nervously between the two.

The elder shrugged. "We'll die, either way. You're too pretty to be a spy, anyhow."

The younger gulped at this dire, belittling proclamation and hurried to open the doors. "The unlocking spell is attached to the right fire pot," he said. "Strike it before you set foot on the last step. Whatever you take, make sure you warm the plaque on its base with your hand before you move it. That's the counterspell for the armaments." Sigyn nodded her thanks, too sunk in nerves to muster a smile, and stepped through. The doors clanged shut behind her, and she was plunged into the black of the vault.

It was a vast space, and by the looks of the rough walls it was a natural cavern, buried beneath the Throne of Asgard. In the very center of it, raised on a shaft of rock and to all appearances suspended in the open air like a fly in a spider's web, was the cache itself. Sigyn crept down the stairs. Fire pots burned, but could do little to turn aside the plucking black. She struck the spell and pushed open the doors.

She found herself in a narrow hall, scantily lit. The walls fell in a slant, lending a claustrophobic air. She shivered and clung to the walls as she advanced.

She looked into every niche as she passed, curious despite herself. Here, a stone eye, its glassy center misshapen and shot through with hideous colors, peering out at her. There, a frost giant's severed head—only its gaze tracked her progress, and its lips curved into a sharp smile. A giant goblet brimming with flames. Something which resembled nothing so much as a giant chunk of polished granite etched with strange runes.

She went down the line, but only when she was two niches away from the pedestal that would have borne the tesseract did she find it. A massive hand formed of hammered gold, its articulated joints and subtle proportions glorious to behold. Sigyn stepped closer, and she counted the six enormous gems set into the back of it: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple. _There is power to be found in a rainbow_, she thought, and swallowed.

This, then, was the Infinity Gauntlet, the terror of the Gem Wars. It was this that Odin had forbidden Loki to use. Sigyn knew a moment's dread. Who was she, to take so lightly the warning of the Allfather? What good could she do, with so great a weapon? Her skills at sorcery, while not poor, were far weaker than many she could name.

She wavered, and Loki's words came to her. _We live or die by desperate leaps, and my father stands firm while the earth rises up to swallow him whole. I have no wish to die for the scruples of an old man._ She steeled herself, unclenched her hand from her skirts and pressed her palm against the metal plate embedded in the stone. It was cold beneath her touch.

Countless moments passed, and she saw the wisdom in forcing a would-be thief to wait before he could seize the object of his raid. Finally the metal warmed, and a pneumatic clank echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling. She jumped, startled, and forced her heart to calm before reaching trembling hands to the Gauntlet.

It was lighter than she had expected. It weighed no more than her satchel burdened with notes and books, and even as she gauged its dimensions they shrank, shedding girth and length—_though not weight, never weight_, she thought wryly—to something her own small hand might comfortably bear. Her breath quickened, and she knew fear.

Once more doubts skewered her, spilling into her quavering heart warnings and dire predictions, and avowals of her own foolishness should she proceed. Sigyn forced them back. Truly, Asgard was at dire straits, and Sigyn had never been one to take the wiser course.

She sucked in a breath, and slipped the Gauntlet over her fingers.

Her mind expanded. It gave a rolling sigh and, gentle as a spreading infection, reached to the horizon. Her thoughts stretched so wide she couldn't pull them close enough to think, no matter how she yanked, and into that void trickled knowledge, _poured_ knowledge, so much knowledge she marveled at the breadth of it. Knowledge of magic, knowledge of the stars and all their satellites, knowledge of the invisible forces that wound them all together. It folded up against her recoiling mind and grafted the strength of its support to the fine membrane she had become, bolstering and tweaking, and with its aid she saw her previous understanding of the universe's miracles had been as a blind man's understanding of color-incomplete, even with the aid of the most advanced theoreticians Asgard could provide.

Just because she could, and for the joy of creation, she constructed an entire universe, every particle of dust, every photon of radiated light, and set it spinning through the infinity of her new mind. She prodded it through its theoretical workings, witnessed its rise and fall and eventual collapse, and she laughed at the power of it. She wondered how much better it would be to create such a thing in truth.

The darkness of the weapons vault throbbed around her, and she walked to the stairs. She had no need to, she could move the fabric of reality beneath her feet to wherever suited her, but she enjoyed this. She enjoyed walking. The guards at the door started at the sight of her, and their minds fluttered against the vast sinews of her thoughts like birds, hollow-boned and fragile. She cupped them close. The heartbeats of their souls raced in fear, and some new part of her stirred in the deeps.

She soothed their fear, and eased away their panic. She brushed the fabric of their _urðr_ as she did, and saw that the elder, a man named Björn, had nightmares and chronic pain, and that if not for his duty he wouldn't bother with living. She saw the other, called Þórvér, a youth barely out of boyhood, missed his mother, whom he had left to escape from his father. Their guilt, and their resentment—for both longed to join in the escalating battle above—was bitter and savory on Sigyn's tongue.

"Be calm, gentlemen, and attend your duties," she whispered through their souls. "There is no need to fear." She watched the fabric of their fates unravel to make itself anew, and it pleased her to create such swift results—she, who had battled against impenetrable walls longer than she could remember.

Up the stairs... through the winding halls... Sigyn _walked_, and she felt all those about her, and knew all the things she had done or ever could do to them. She heard the footsteps of the ant on the flags, she heard the groan of distant planets as the rock of their base turned once more to face their suns and expanded in the warmth. She felt the draft that sent the drapes behind the throne billowing as she passed, and while the cold gust was unpleasant, the undulating dance of the curtains soothed her annoyance. She let the draft remain.

Beyond, she could hear chaos and screaming through the coliseum of the throne room, trickling through the columns and from above with the passing aircraft, and she danced to the subtle symphonies in the sound. The Chitauri were winning, of course. Superior skill was nothing against overwhelming numbers. Sigyn recalled her purpose in obtaining the Gauntlet, and immediately a hundred different possibilities came to her. Some were... more elegant than others. She discarded those many inefficient and ungainly and regarded the decent few.

_That one_. It was perfect: simple, refined, and deliciously ironic. She was small as she made her way across vast floor, and she laughed at the contrast. Then she laughed for sheer joy, for she bore the salvation of her people and the fruition of her magical research in her grasp.

The Causeway was an abattoir. Souls flickered and rose from the fallen bodies, some clinging stubbornly to life while others slipped into the ether, and Sigyn brushed against them. An urge rose in her, foreign and of a source beyond her expanded insight, that she pull those loosened souls into her. She resisted the urge. It was weak, yet, and she was wary of so alien a wish as consuming another's spirit. She passed the battleground, and the Chitauri drones collapsed in her wake.

Everywhere she walked the Chitauri fell, and as she peeked into the madly sprouting, branching and withering futures around her she saw the thread of a story: a story told over bitter mead to eager ears by solemn veterans, of a faint slip of a woman, beautiful as the burning rays of the rising sun she held fisted in her hand, her eyes white with power, and of the enemy soldiers who died in her wake. They told of her pleased smile, beatific and crooked, and Sigyn passed those story-tellers with her hand raised in blessing.

The densest knot of fighting arose at the juncture of land, sea and sky. Sigyn could see the strife written through the ship-stained clouds and feel it in the vibrations on the bridge beneath her feet. She tracked the spoor to their quivering, violent source, following the wounded Causeway to the rocky shoals ahead, and around her the shadows cast by the colossi pooled dark and cool.

A heavy, groaning roar drew her attention, and the clatter of shattering masonry. She turned, and as she did a cadre of leviathans surged overhead, shattering millennia of architectural heritage beneath their armored bodies. Sigyn shielded herself from the falling stone, and in her burgeoning fury dashed the beasts to the streets below. This was her land, her home, and these insects were destroying it as a child might destroy another's toys out of spite. It was time to end this petty fight.

She summoned her power, a depthless well of pure strength, and loosed her small frame from its anchor in the cosmos. She floated freely, caught outside reality, and with a hum of satisfaction she drew the material of time and space into new position before reattaching the weft of her matter to the warp of the universe.

She emerged in the heart of the Æsir line, before the united scions of the House of Odin, and, smiling at the expression of shock and confusion mirrored three times over, turned to face the oncoming Chitauri. It took but a wave of her gauntleted hand to obliterate them, and another to sweep from the sky the skiffs that harassed the Ægirjar. They fell like cast stones into the ocean.

She read the Allfather's intent well before he made his move, his mind broadcasting his battle cry even as he made plain to loose it. She caught him with a thought, stringing through his mind a psychic drug fit to calm him to her purposes. She turned on her heel, and the Swaying One slipped from Odin's grasp to clatter against the Causeway's crystal face.

"Now is not the time to obstruct me, Allfather," she said to his vacant eye. "I would win your war for you."

His sons trembled at her polyphonic voice, the one cresting a wave of angry recrimination while the other descended in a whirl of horror to the lurking guilt within. She reached out to him. "Oh, Loki. Do not fear for me, for I have grown beyond the mortal chains of thought, and can see the glorious future that awaits. This is the defense you would have sought; rejoice, then, and hope." He was as a stone beneath her touch. She smiled. He would bend, soon enough.

She inhaled, and Time slowed; she exhaled, and Time stopped.

It was with a child's wonder she touched the droplet of sweat that had frozen in its course down Loki's cheek. It broke free from its temporal bonds as she touched it, slipping over her fingertips and smearing against his skin. Loki stared at her, but only if she stood constant; a step in any direction and his gaze unfocused. Sigyn found her hands, even the one bearing its gauntlet, knotting in her skirts, and she looked away.

Over his shoulder, the smoldering wreck of a longship drew her eye. It hovered a bare ell above its destruction against the bloodied rocks, gasping smoke from amidships and ægiri from the rails. She pressed her hand to Loki's motionless chest, then let it fall as she stepped around to aid the frozen soldiers. A snap of her fingers and the ship was set to rights; a sweep of her hands and those sailors that had fallen, or had leapt overboard in scanty hope of survival, were once more restored to its decks.

It wasn't enough, for in the distance she saw yet another longship burning, and below, on the rocky spur that bore up the City's gates, she saw with crystalline clarity the arterial spray of an einheri's death. She bowed her head in sorrow, but raised it with determination, for she had the resources to right this insult to the might of Asgard. She raised the gauntlet before her, and closed her eyes. Unseen to her, the orange gem set in the knuckles began to glow.

Sigyn anchored a lifeline in the now and sent her mind down the woven thread of time to infinite ages past, to the birth of Asgard. She saw the mighty sorcerers of legend as though they had come to shadowy, half-remembered life, saw the building of that disc of land that would become her home and the home of all the Æsir for generations to come. Her head swam with knowledge and her smile widened in awe, for she saw the construction of Bifröst. The Ancients had truly been worthy ancestors.

She released her hold on Time, letting the lifeline slingshot her back to her present. Images and sensations flickered by at incredible speed, and as she neared the now she jerked her head to the side, searching, for she had sworn she felt something familiar, something reminiscent of her herself. It was gone before she had time to find it, and she reemerged on the Causeway to chaos, for letting go of the Past had also released her grasp on the Present. Odin bellowed, Thor's hammer was raised to strike her down, and Loki stood as though frozen still, torn between his brother and his lover.

Sigyn scowled, and Mjölnir vanished from Thor's hand to appear in Sigyn's own. She stared down at it, then cast it aside into the sea below. "Do not obstruct me, Hammer of the Giants. I have seen your salvation." Thor's eyes, and Loki's as well, were wide and wary. Sigyn felt the fear seeping through their souls, and she laughed. "Think you the Dwarves, or the hand of Odin himself, can work a thing stronger than the Universe? Come, see the might of my hand!"

With that she faced the shattered remains of Bifröst. She twisted her hands at her sides, gathering her strength to her, and raised them. Gases materialized at the end of the world, swirling in the bow of shattered rock and crystal that once held the Observatory and congealing into a cloud shot through with infinite colors. Sigyn pressed them together, gathering hydrogen and helium and trace others, and forced them to such great heat they became neither liquid nor solid nor gas, but something more. Still the gases swirled, spinning a corona around the nascent star. She cast aside the debris that would have become planets; it was useless to her purposes. The gravitational pull gnawed at her defenses.

Behind her, the Allfather restrained his men from touching her. He did not know what she planned, she saw, but he could read the signature of the magic she played out easily enough, and he knew slaying Sigyn would doom his Realm.

All of Asgard stopped to watch the rising star, drone and ás alike, and it grew until it dominated the heavens, until all there was to see was light before them and crushing void behind. The star flared, its light ferocious and blinding, and it leached all the color from Sigyn's sight but for the glare of the gems in her gauntlet. She manipulated the magical tides governing the sun's growth, goading them faster and faster, and slipped it free from the fabric of Reality that she might accelerate its life without consuming Asgard in its fire.

It burned until its fuel faltered, and the skies darkened as it shrank into itself. All around her Sigyn could see the armies blinking and rubbing their eyes, squinting as though it were the dead of darkest night. She smiled, and raised her gauntleted fist.

Something like wind rushed over the City, tearing at the trees and blowing spume from the waves. The Einherjar's capes billowed, the longships, both those aloft and those on sea, tossed in the torrent; Loki and Thor's hair, and her own, for that matter, was thrown into knots.

The Chitauri, however, were blown from their feet by the force that struck them. Leviathans lurched and bellowed against the pull, skiffs wheeled and bucked and infantry rose from the City canyons like dust from so many pollinating flowers. They soared overhead, clashing together and screaming their fear, and Sigyn smiled as she threw them into the dying sun.

Then came another gust, greater than the first, and none too few trees came uprooted, but Sigyn steadied the Æsir on their feet, and sent the longships to safe berth. Stone and debris from the broken City fell into the gale, flying past at hurricane speeds toward the blazing star.

From the south rose the massed hordes of the Chitauri. The debris of their camps, clouds of their technology, the shelters and tangled cables used to contain their leviathans. Sigyn scoured the face of Asgard clean of their filth, and all of it, every last scrap she could find, she sent into the rapidly diminishing star.

It still wasn't enough. There were more Chitauri than this, more of them staining the universe and tapping Yggdrasil to suck the sap from Her veins. Sigyn reached her arms wide, stretching her fingers for the very last sensation of their prickly minds against her own, and drew them in.

Three great ships appeared from the black, hovering over the City like jagged thunderclouds the likes of which the Thunderer could never best, and Sigyn howled her hatred at them. She reached farther, searched longer, and more and more ships flared and appeared in the skies above Asgard until a veritable armada of Chitauri spun in the air. Sigyn reached, and she found the Chitauri homeworld. She brushed against it, almost scoured it bare—but the faintest inkling of mercy, stretched and screaming somewhere in the back of her mind, convinced her otherwise. She let them stay, let the children and weak and those warriors on leave live. But the rest, she decided, would die.

Before her, framed between the Causeway's pylons, her star collapsed into sucking blackness. She caught its magic before it could slip into the singularity and be lost to her, and with it she reined the dying star to her will.

She felt Thor's attack before he made it, and even with her mind divided between holding the Chitauri hiveships at bay and warping a black hole while protecting her homeland from the force of its gravity she still managed to cast him an idle backhand that sent him tumbling down the Causeway.

"Thor!" Loki scrambled after his brother and bent to check he still breathed.

Odin took advantage of her distraction, planting Gungnir and leveling his fear-filled eye. "You would destroy an entire race?"

"You would stop me?" her voice sang with violence and anger. "You bear them no more love than I."

"No people deserves to die. Not the Jötnar, not the Chitauri. You do not need the blood of an entire species on your hands."

Sigyn laughed. "I am the Goddess among gods, Allfather. I am the Universe incarnate. What is one species against the billions I hold in my mind?"

"You are also Sigyn Njallsdóttir, and when you wake from this dream you will see what you have done and it will crush you."

"I will not wake, Odin, for I will not allow it. The Gauntlet is mine." She blasted Odin back to join his sons, and with a wrench of her fist the black hole locked into place. Into its maw she poured the hiveships, and she savored their death screams as they fell over the event horizon. She controlled their descent, watching as the remnants of their mass compacted together into a point finer than any needle, stronger than _uru_, harder than adamant, and she rammed into the very core of the singularity. It punched through, tearing reality and opening into void beyond.

The final ship of the Chitauri she held back. With a deft twist of her hands she shredded it in the sky, and after casting the corpses of her foes into the black she melted the shards to cast them in the form of a new Observatory. She saw, now, the brilliance behind its predecessor's construction: the mechanism bowed inward to trap the black hole, and its ley lines, so cumbersome in her equally cumbersome models, were not constructed with conventional magics in mind, but with the intent to harness the tidal forces of a singularity. It was beauty and simplicity bound together in one and her heart swelled with pride.

The outside she sculpted into a graceful sphere, and around the inside she fashioned leaves and buds and growing stems from the cooling metal. Beneath the steely foliage, and this was her especial pleasure, peeped the stars in the precise vectors they showed in the celestial vault beyond.

It was glorious, but it was not quite finished. Subduing a wormhole demanded power, Sigyn saw, and she had seen, too, that even the Ancients had pondered the dilemma long and hard. Her own dilemma was far less arduous.

The Æsir were no longer the great builders they had once been—but there was at least one, small, glowing bit of contemporary ingenuity Sigyn deemed fit to use. With a twist of time and space she pulled the tesseract from its moorings in the Bifröst model and manifested it beneath the Observatory keyhole. It slipped into the mechanism with a tiny quiver, and took to its new purpose with a will. Its magics bent to hold the gate open, stabilizing it against the vagaries of its own hungry pull, and settled down peaceably to wait for the Gatekeeper's command. Sigyn smiled. With a final, smoothing caress, she joined the magical pulse of the new Bifröst to the lifeline of the Causeway, and to the greater engine of Asgard. The atmospheric barrier firmed and rainbow flared beneath crystal with renewed fervor.

It was done.

Sigyn tied off the magics, anchoring them into their new homes, and stepped back from her working. Her body buzzed with the feedback of spent energy as she turned to the Allfather.

It was not Odin who met her but Loki instead, and it was one of his daggers, glowing green with the strength of its enchantment, that bore his reply. Sigyn reared back, staring in shock at the hilt protruding from her chest, and the distraction was time enough for Thor to hammer Mjölnir to the back of her skull. She dropped to her knees, sending ripples of color through the rainbow glass of the Causeway. She saw stars wheel overhead, and the Allfather's stern eye as he raised his spear—

And then she knew nothing.


	25. Chapter 25

Loki sat by Sigyn's bedside, fingers steepled and pressed to his lips. The bandages were clean, pristine—even those over her chest. Loki felt those, at least, should bear some stain, some sign of recrimination for his deed. He reached out to smooth a minute wrinkle from the blankets.

He had destroyed the daggers. He couldn't bear looking at them, knowing they had borne Sigyn's blood.

Would that he could do the same to his hands.

The healers had said she was sound, physically, that the bandages were only to protect the newly healed skin from damage or infection. Her head however, was another story. Mjölnir had rung her a solid blow, and by some miracle of the Norns nothing had broken or ruptured. The real concern, however, was her mind. It was unknown how the Gauntlet, which offered its bearer the power of the universe itself, warped the minds of its wielders to fit its needs. Thanos was certainly no fit scale to judge against, and Sigyn had been so far from herself it had been akin to looking another person in the eye. Loki shuddered. It recalled the power of his scepter, and he felt new, uncomfortable sympathy for his victims. He brushed a hand over Sigyn's brow, smoothing down the coils of her hair only for them to spring back again.

It could have been him, laying on this bed in the healing wing, unconscious and suffering from wounds no healer could see.

Three days had passed since they had struck her down. Three days he had sat vigil by her bed while she slept. Three days, and already the destruction caused by the Chitauri was being cleared away. Loki could see the civic plaza from the window, the rubble strewn across it dwindling over the course of the day. He looked back to the woman he loved, the woman who had sacrificed her mind to save her home, and his heart clenched in a bitter fist.

The muted rhythm of boots against stone drew his attention, and he tensed. He turned, and it was Njall, escorted by two orderlies with a stretcher between them. Loki rose from his seat.

"What—"

Njall cut him off. "I'm taking her home," he said. "I have spoken with Lady Eir, she said there is no reason to keep her here any longer." His eyes were dark and sorrowful, and he looked past Loki to his daughter and his fear and grief were plain to see.

"She's all I have," Loki croaked. He didn't want this man to take her away, to limit how often he could see her.

"No, Prince," Njall said, a thin thread of anger slipping through his tone. "She's all _I_ have."

Loki bowed his head, defeated. He stepped aside as the orderlies bundled Sigyn onto the stretcher, and watched, despairing, as her father took her away.

He left the healing wing soon after. There was nothing for him there but bad memories, and he drifted through the halls, seeking somewhere untouched. There was nowhere. Here was where he had run into a pageboy that wandering night months ago. That corner, that was where he had hid himself to watch the festivities of his brother's majority. He had played with toy soldiers on that landing, when he was a child. He walked until he found an alcove set about with chairs, carefully tucked away for intimate conversation, and lowered himself into the closest seat. He stared at the wall, vainly schooling his thoughts to silence.

He lost track of how long he sat there, the passage of servants and swirling conversations slipping by behind him. The sun slipped down the sky, and the shadows grew long upon the floor. He sought only peace, but it was not to be, and his contemplation was interrupted once again by approaching footsteps. The smell of pipe tobacco wafted from the newcomer's clothes.

Loki didn't bother turning around to greet his father. "I suppose you've come to gloat," he said, lacing his voice with scorn and bitter hurt. "'See, foolish child, the consequences of too much power.'"

"No," the Allfather said simply, stepping forward to stand beside his son. They sat like that for a time, in silence. "How is she?"

Loki assumed he asked out of courtesy rather than a lack of knowledge. "She is alive." _After a fashion._

"She did Asgard a great service," Odin said. "Though I would not have wished her this fate."

"No," Loki snarled, suddenly angry. "You would have wished her the plaything of the Chitauri, to be raped and broken when in the end they conquered us."

"Genocide is not an easier burden, my son. Nor, it seems, is the Gauntlet itself."

Loki scoffed. "We _are_ a matched pair, then, aren't we. Scarred, murdering, _untrustworthy_ sorcerers, good only for when _you're_ in a bind and can't muster the stones to get yourself out again."

Beside him, he heard his father give a long, tired sigh. "I never know the right words to use with you, Loki. It seems I always choose exactly wrong."

"Then don't talk to me." Loki's voice trembled, and he drew his hand into a fist to keep from touching Sigyn's locket.

Odin's voice was thin, when he spoke again, and strained with grief. "Oh, my son. I admit I was afraid." He inhaled deeply. "Power is a seductive thing; I know this perhaps better than you realize, for I fought in the War of the Gems alongside your grandfather. I helped him force Thanos back from Álfheimr, and I was there when Borr took the Gauntlet from his hand."

Then, to Loki's undying shock, Odin Allfather shuddered. "It called to me, Loki, even as it called to you. As it called to Sigyn. It beckoned me with the promise of limitless souls and the minds of all the universe to sway to my will. It lured me, and it came so close to snaring me that, had Heimdall not seen in time and warned my father, Asgard as we know it would not have survived.

"I am grateful this battle is over—but I do not rejoice in how it ended."

Loki bowed his head beneath his father's revelation. The press of Odin's hand upon his shoulder grounded him. "You are a greater man than I, Loki, to have resisted the Gauntlet's pull. I am proud."

Loki made to snort, but it came out more as a sob. Ironic humor rose like a tide of stinging brine, and only the presence of his father kept the tears at bay. "There was a time I would have remade the heavens to earn a scrap of your pride," he said. "Now that I have it, I find I would trade it for the sight of her eyes once more."

"I am sorry." Odin's hand was heavy on his shoulder, and though Loki would not have had it that way, it brought comfort with its weight.

Something in Loki's chest cracked, perhaps the bitter knot of his heart, but he couldn't stop the words that stumbled out of him, nor the tear that fell to soak into the fabric of his trousers. "It should have been me. I'm the murderer, it should have been me."

"Oh, Loki."

His father moved to a chair, and sat with him until the long shadows of afternoon faded into the dark of evening.

It helped.


	26. Chapter 26

She woke to the sound of chirping birds, chimes and the gravelly rumble of a voice nearby. Her thoughts drift toward each other, and it seemed they took a great deal of time before they met—like ships in the night, but with a fair sight more good fortune, for these, at least, eventually did cross paths.

That was her father's voice. The words, too, were familiar, but... Sigyn sighed internally, and once more she let out her thoughts out to drift over the waters. They felt loose, detached, and she... she _felt_ the absence of supporting structures that had stamped their imprint on the architecture of her mind.

It took an age to recognize the words. They were from her favorite childhood book, one of wizards and warriors and noble quests. It was a frivolity, but something her father had shared with her, and she had treasured it.

...Why was he reading it now?

Sigyn breathed deeply, taking in the smell of clean linens, and opened her eyes. The rich ochres of her bed curtains met her gaze. Her father's voice stopped.

"Sigyn?" he asked, and she could hear... worry. And hope, in his voice.

"Wh... wha' h'ppened?" she slurred, half-asleep yet. Chime lilies, she thought. From Vanaheim. That was the chiming, she had them outside in planters. She was very proud.

Her father's callused farmer's hand took up her own, and Sigyn flopped her head to the side to look. By the _Tree_ her head hurt. Her brain throbbed at the incautious movement, and she winced.

"You took something of a blow to the head," her father said, and there was something else there, but Sigyn couldn't think enough to get it out.

"Oh," she said, and let her eyes settle closed. She was in bed, and her father was close. It was time to sleep.

OOO

It was Loki who took Sigyn outside for the first time since... whatever it was had happened.

Everyone had been tight-lipped around her, as though she was delicate and requiring kid gloves, but she had overheard enough talk to realize the war was over. The Chitauri had apparently left Asgard, and the invasion was lifted. She tried to grasp at memories of that day, but aside from random images that flickered and vanished, or vague impressions when she looked at the way her curtains billowed in the breeze, she could remember nothing.

Far more unnerving was the way the servants tiptoed about her, and froze like rabbits whenever she made a move. Only Ane and her father, and Loki, and Thor when he came to visit, treated her anything like normal.

Further, Something had passed between Loki and Njall. Gone was the wary circling from before, replaced by grudging mutual understanding, and all told Sigyn was ready to try hitting her head with something very hard again in hopes that it would set her mind back to rights.

She was wearing her most comfortable, worn-in dress, tucked beneath her trustworthy surcoat, to visit the City in the wake of the victory. Sigyn would have thought it a joyous walk, but Njall's eyes, and Loki's when he came to gather her, were solemn and reluctant.

It put a damper on conversation. She leaned on Loki's arm, steady beneath her still-wavering sense of balance, and silently stared out at the destruction marring her home. The worst of the rubble was gone, and the broken glass was no more than glittering puffs of silver ground into the pavement, but buildings were still hollow, torn shells, and mighty towers that had once reached for the sky were now truncated just above the surrounding roofline.

"They infiltrated through the sewers and cut the generators," Loki explained softly. "Do you remember the warning bells?" Sigyn didn't. "That was when the shield fell."

Sigyn nodded, and something was rising in her chest, some revelation she _knew_ but couldn't _touch_. She clung tighter to Loki's arm.

A groom held a horse waiting, and Loki helped Sigyn into the saddle before easing up behind her. He clicked his tongue and drew the reins, and led them down the Causeway. The destruction was plainer, in the plaza. A sizable crater radiated out from the center, and Sigyn had a vague recollection of Thor and Loki slamming home before the invasion struck. All around the shops were boarded, though some were open in defiance, and an impromptu market had sprung up amidst the more prodigious chunks of fallen architecture.

It did not escape Sigyn, the looks the City-dwellers gave her. They were wary, they were guarded, and no few were awed. She pressed back into Loki's embrace and her feeling of foreboding deepened.

Loki goaded the horse into a canter after they broke through the plaza. Sigyn stared up at the defaced colossi lining the Causeway.

"Leviathans," Loki said, following her gaze.

Sigyn tore her eyes away, focusing on the air between the horse's ears and nowhere else.

They reached the Northern Gates, those that opened on Bifröst, and when they parted Sigyn stiffened. How many times she had gazed down this vista she had lost count, but she knew that that—she squinted—_structure, _had not been there. Nothing stood there, not since the Observatory had shorn off into the void.

She leaned forward in her insistent curiosity, and almost fell off the horse. Loki caught her, snugging her back against him. "Easy," he murmured.

"What—" she began, but he cut her off.

"You'll see, soon enough."

Sigyn bit her tongue and watched as the pylons fell past and the structure grew larger. Her frown deepened. "That looks like an observatory," she said, and it did. The Bifröst Observatory had not been the only observatory in Asgard, though it had been the only one with the additional purpose of housing a bridge. With the absence of the latter the former should not have stood in its place. To do so would mock the Bifröst, and make it more difficult for future engineers to reconstruct it.

"It is," Loki said, and Sigyn heard the reluctance in his voice. He reined in the horse before the Gatekeeper's amber gaze. "We wish to see the Observatory," he said.

Heimdall's gaze flicked between the two, and Sigyn felt herself quailing beneath that penetrating stare. The Watcher said nothing, however, merely stood aside.

Loki helped slide Sigyn from the horse, and once again offered his arm for her to lean upon. He guided her through into the viewing platform within.

It was like the former Observatory in outline, but the resemblance ended there. Where the previous had been a bright, brassy gold, this was the color of worn steel. Where the previous had been marked with seiðr and rune along the axes, this instead bore corresponding plants, rising from the metal as though grown, not sculpted, and the effect was softer, more organic. Sigyn gazed about her, taking in the bridge port above and the keyhole before, and she found herself beginning to tremble. This was more than just an observatory.

"Loki, what... what is this? How—"

"You took the Infinity Gauntlet, Sigyn," he said, and the words sounded as though they were torn from his lips.

She frowned. "I did what?"

Loki swallowed. "The Gauntlet. Thanos' Hand. You took it, _you_ rebuilt Bifröst. This is your doing."

"Oh," Sigyn murmured, and reached out to touch a flowering mandrake. It was cold beneath her touch. Awe filled her. So long she had worked toward this goal. "I don't remember any of it."

That wasn't entirely true. Even as she said it glimpses flared through her mind; battle frozen on the Causeway, her hand against Loki's cheek; ancients wielding mighty forces; a Chitauri hiveship silhouetted against the sun. She frowned. "There's something else," she said, and looked to the prince.

Loki was staring at the walls, his face a mixture of fascination and revulsion. "You formed a black hole," he said. "You generated a star not a hundred paces from where we stand and you collapsed it into a black hole." He glanced to her, then away. "You sent the Chitauri into it."

Sigyn stared at him. "I... _what?_"

"You buried the Chitauri in the black hole you created, and then you built this Observatory out of their own hiveship as a gravestone," he said. His eyes bore terrible knowledge in their depths, and deep, aching regret.

Sigyn swallowed, her brows drawing together. "I destroyed a hiveship?"

"No," Loki whispered. "You destroyed _all_ of them."

There was a beat where Sigyn tried to process his words, tried to understand what he was saying, but it wouldn't come. She stared at the glorious tangle of plants, and the stylized stars peeping out from behind their leaves, and her breath came faster and faster.

All of them. She had destroyed _all_ of them.

Memories flickered; she saw hints of her own mind, foreign yet intimate, of joy at her victory, impressions of vindictive pleasure, of sculpting the folly of her enemy into the glory of her people. "Loki!" Her voice was thin and weak in her ears.

She couldn't see. She was blind; all she saw was the shadowed memories that tore at the edges of her, like looking through broken shards of glass that refused to stay steady in her grasp. She couldn't see, and Loki's hands came up around her, warm and strong.

"Sigyn, it's alright, I'm here."

A wail tore from her throat, horror-stricken and hoarse with denial. It sounded guttural and animalistic where it reverberated from the exquisite acoustic of the domed walls. She buried her face in Loki's chest. She could _feel_ her own pride and pleasure, she could _still_ feel it. She broke away from Loki's embrace and collapsed to her knees, coughing up the bile that rose in her throat.

Loki's hands were back, brushing aside her hair, and Sigyn shuddered.

"What have I done?" she whispered.

"What you thought best for your people at the time," Loki answered.

"Don't justify it!" Sigyn snarled, wiping the taste of vomit from her lips. "Don't make this less than it is."

"You think I make less of experience?" Loki said, and his voice was oddly distant. Sigyn looked to him, and even through her agony she saw its mirror in his own gaze. "Twice I tried to kill an entire race. The second time I succeeded." He stroked Sigyn's hair. "There was but a handful left, after Thanos' attentions, but I still killed them. They were a fragile species. Fragile and beautiful. Thanos ordered, and I obeyed. Take comfort in the knowledge the Chitauri would have destroyed you, in turn, my lady. It is cold comfort, but better that than none at all."

Tears slipped down Sigyn's cheeks, hot and stinging, and she felt herself crumple about the ache in her heart. "Take me away from here, Loki," she said. "Please, take me away."

Once more she felt his arms come about her shoulders, and then felt the pressing weight of the In Between. He brought them to her bed, and he curled himself around her, taking her sobs into himself and sharing in her pain until the weak oblivion of sleep claimed her.


	27. Chapter 27

Asgard healed. Summer settled into autumn; those crops not damaged were harvested and stored for the oncoming winter. The fallen were ushered into Valhalla with feasting and song.

Odin made the blót in the Hall of Noble Dead as custom and duty dictated, and if it was a more poignant service than before, and if the Lady Sigyn had been forced to leave halfway through, none made comment. Some wounds could be lanced; some, however, were yet too raw. Prince Loki followed her out, vulpine face impassive, but even the least observant could see how his hand remained locked in hers.

It came as no surprise to anyone when the announcement of their betrothal crept through the somber lines of hearsay. Nor was it a surprise that no wedding date was set, for the Æsir were shaken, made to see they were not invulnerable in their floating fortress, and there was little joy to be found. It was a good match, all agreed, both politically and... in temperament, but regardless of the soundness of the arrangement it was ill-luck for a bride to grieve on her wedding day.

Refugees trickled out of the City, accompanied by the disbanded reserve, and both the Einherjar and the Ægirjar were granted much-needed leave. Naught more than a skeleton crew of guards and patrol ships remained to tend the gates, but—and this was the dubious mercy granted to Asgard's people—the Nine Realms, and presumably all the others not within reach of Yggdrasil's branches, had seen the terrible might Asgard held, and despite her weakened position none were bold enough to try her.

As for the source of that caution, it was a small ceremony, hushed and private, that showed the Allfather bestowing the guardianship of Thanos' Hand upon his second son.

Heimdall saw it all. He heard the gossip, smelled the fear, witnessed the toils that had brought them to this point. He saw, then turned away to cast his sight into the void. The walls of the new Observatory, bloodstained and weeping where he caught them out of the corner of his eye, swept to either side. Before him, planets wheeled and stars burned, and the brilliant flares of the nebulae etched their lines across the black.

It was a thrill all its own, to stand at the edge of the world, to see the oceans fall away in thunderous sheets, to smell the crisp ozone stink of the atmospheric barrier and fight vertigo while daring death to claim him. The Watcher of Worlds reveled in every minute, for it gave the touch of life to his long years.

But he did not forget his duty.

He watched, and he searched, for somewhere, hiding beyond his sight, the Mad Titan scented the air. This peace was not true peace; it was but a reprieve, a pause on the battlefield. The war was yet to come. Heimdall steeled himself to watch and be wary, for Thanos did not share the brash impatience of the Chitauri. He would come from the side, sudden as a striking snake, and Asgard could not trust in the naiveté of Lady Sigyn to save them a second time.

The Horn-Blower readied his sword and stood firm in the shadow of the Bifröst.

END

* * *

A/N: Okay, y'all, thank you for sticking with me on this roller-coaster. Barf bags are located in the seat-pockets in front of you, tissues in the courtesy packs the flight-attendants are handing out. You may now use your cell phones and other portable electronic devices.

...Sorry.

Thank you to Norway and Iceland for letting me borrow the names of their geographical features, and I apologize for any misuse of Old Norse words that may have occurred. Thank you also to Somastella, who was my guinea pig/beta/comforting shoulder to freak out on. Thank you to _all_ my reviewers, all my story followers, all my author followers, and all you lurkers out there who haven't yet mustered the stones to do any of the above. :)

Thank you for taking the time to read. *less-than-three* to you all.


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